


Unshaken by the Darkness

by baar_ur



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood and Injury, Chant of Light (Dragon Age), Chronic Pain, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Healer Inquisitor, Mom inquisitor, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Self-Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2020-12-27 17:30:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21122567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baar_ur/pseuds/baar_ur
Summary: The one who repents, who has faith,Unshaken by the darkness of the world,She shall know true peace.- Transfigurations 10:1Claudia Trevelyan never wanted the weight of the world on her shoulders, much less to be called the Herald of Andraste. But if it falls to her to close the Breach and save Thedas, she'll do it. No matter what it costs, she'll do it.





	1. Chapter 1

The green mist -

_ mist isn’t usually green, is it? _

The screams from the throats of burning men -

_ that, she’s more familiar with. _

And the woman, brilliant, burning -

_ CassiaAndrasteMother, please - _

_ Give me your hand! _

_ Maker have mercy, it hurts. _

  
  


She’s not really conscious when they haul her up to kneel on the stone. Not until her hand sparks with green light that hurts like taking a mage’s lightning bolt. Then, as she’s gasping for air, the door swings open. Two women enter, one in armor and one hooded that she can almost remember. 

“What have you done to me?” she asks, watching as the one in armor starts to circle her. “What is this?” The hooded one just stares at her, and she stares back - she can almost remember her…

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.” The question from the one in armor catches her off guard, and she looks up at her in horror and confusion. “The Conclave is destroyed,” the one in armor says, continuing her prowl to stand in front of her again. “Everyone who attended is dead.”

“No.” The word is torn out of her by surprise.  _ Cassia, Cassia, Cassia - _ “No!” she sobs, “Maker, no!”

“Except for you,” the one in armor concludes. 

She wants to pray, but she can’t find the words. With her hands bound, she can’t reach up to wipe away her tears, and she’s struggling to hold them back when the one in armor reaches out to pull her hand up, just as it flashes and sparks again.

“Explain this,” the one in armor demands.

“I can’t -”

“What do you mean, you  _ can’t _ ?”

“I don’t know what it is -” She looks to the hooded one, hoping for aid. “I don’t know where it came from!”

“You’re lying!” The one in armor snarls, lunging toward her, but the hooded one catches her by the arm.

“We need her, Cassandra.” The hooded one’s accent is Orlesian, and she can almost place her - she remembers her in Val Royeaux, rose madder Chantry robes against white marble…

The hooded one has moved the one in armor - Cassandra - away to a safe distance, where she watches with a sour face.

“Please. My name is Claudia Trevelyan. I came here for my sister -”  _ and now she is dead. _ “I wanted to bring her home safe -”  _ and I failed. _ She lets her head fall to her chest.

“Do you remember what happened?” the hooded one asks. “How this began?”

Some of her light brown hair has fallen in her face, and she tries to shake it out of her eyes before she speaks. “I - I was in the main hall. There were so many people…”  _ They are all dead. _ “I saw Senior Enchanter Bevans, from the Ostwick Circle, and I went to ask him if he had seen Cassia.” He had been a gentle man; years ago, he had attended her eldest brother’s wedding and made a shining display of sparks for the celebration. “There was a, a noise. People started to panic. I went toward it, I wanted to help…” She shakes her head. “I don’t remember what happened after that.” No, her dream - “There was mist, green mist. I heard the screaming, and there was a woman…” 

“A woman?” the hooded one breathes.

“She touched my hand...” With a growing sense of horror, she looks down at her hand. There is something there, as though one of the lines of her hand has broken open into a ragged mouth that breathes wisps of smoke and bites with teeth of green light.

“Go to the forward camp, Leliana,” Cassandra says. “I -”

“Leliana!” Claudia interrupts. “Lady Nightingale, I spoke with you! In Val Royeaux, two or th-three years ago - Please, I don’t know what’s going on!”

Lady Nightingale and Cassandra look to her, then to each other. “I will take her to the rift,” Cassandra says. As the Nightingale departs, Cassandra approaches, key in hand to remove Claudia’s chains. 

“I came to find my sister,” Claudia repeats quietly. “And now you tell me she is dead. What - what happened?”

“It…” Cassandra hesitates. She does not seem like a woman who hesitates often, and the pause sinks the stone in Claudia’s stomach deeper. “It will be easier to show you.”

Up they go, one set of stone steps and then another. Claudia’s hands are bound with rope now, and she trails them against the cold wall to keep her balance. The pre-dawn haze is enough to make her flinch as they reach open air. There is a rumble like thunder, and she looks up to the sky… 

“We call it ‘the Breach’,” Cassandra says as Claudia stares at the swirling cyclone of light, boulders larger than houses simply hovering inside the twisted column. “It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows stronger with each passing hour.”

“Maker protect us,” Claudia murmurs.

“It’s not the only such rift. Just the largest,” Cassandra continues. “All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

“What kind of explosion can do that?” she asks, but she already has a suspicion: a magical one. The Fade holds demons and spirits, power for mages and dreams for everyone else, all tied together in one Maker-forsaken package.

“I don’t know,” Cassandra admits. “But unless we act, the Breach may continue to grow until it swallows the world.”

_ A tumor in the belly of the sky, _ Claudia thinks, and is about to say when the Breach… explodes? The mouth in her hand explodes with it - she tries not to scream but doesn’t think she succeeds - and the next thing she knows, Cassandra is kneeling in the snow beside her.

“Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads,” Cassandra says. “And it is killing you. It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.”

The Breach  _ will _ spread, somehow Claudia feels she knows this. It will cover Ferelden, then the Free Marches, Nevarra, Tevinter, whatever is beyond the seas. “Whatever I can do to help, I will.”

Cassandra nods her approval and reaches out to take Claudia by the arm, helping her to her feet. Together they proceed through Haven. It looks the same as the last time she saw it, save for the suspicious stares and murmurs that follow them. “They have already decided your guilt,” Cassandra says, her quiet voice a counterpoint to the glare that sends a wary guard back a step and his hand away from his sword. “They need it. The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy.”

“I am an apothecary and a physician,” Claudia hisses. “I have sworn to do no harm, save to those who mean me harm.”

“You think these people know that?” Cassandra replies. “You think they care?”

“The Conclave was a chance for peace between mages and templars,” Claudia says as the guards at the gate heave the heavy wooden doors out of their way. “I had no desire and no reason to destroy that.”

“We must think beyond ourselves, as Divine Justinia did.” Cassandra turns Claudia toward the path leading up to the bridge, and the mountain beyond. “At least until the Breach is sealed.”

“And hopefully after, for the sake of my neck,” Claudia mutters.

Cassandra snorts, but whether it is in disgust or in humor, there is no way to tell. 

Once at the bridge, under the watchful eye of half a dozen soldiers, Cassandra draws a dagger from her belt.

Claudia skitters back a step. “I thought you wanted my help.” Cassandra doesn’t reply, just grabs her by the ropes at her wrists and pulls her forward. “This thing hurts and I’d be happy to let you cut it off, but I think I’d prefer an axe -”

Cassandra slices through the rope, freeing Claudia’s hands. “There will be a trial,” she says, meeting Claudia’s gaze evenly. “I can promise no more.”

“Brilliant,” Claudia mutters, rubbing her wrists. She looks around as Cassandra begins to walk away. Corpses are laid out in neat rows, one Chantry sister praying over them while another tends to wounded on the other side of the bridge. How many dead here alone? Thirty or more?

“Come,” Cassandra orders. “It is not far.”

Claudia would rather stay here a little while, see if there is anyone she can help, but it seems she’s needed more up there. She trudges after the warrior, turning her attention to the mountain track leading up toward the Breach. “It’s not as far as Tevinter, but I don’t think I’d say it’s a short walk.”

Cassandra huffs a little without looking back. “Your mark must be tested on something smaller than the Breach. There is a rift above. Open the gate!” she calls ahead to the guards. “We are going into the valley.”

“Maker go with you, Seeker,” one of the men murmurs as she passes. Behind them, the gate closes with a heavy thud and a clank of the latches.

“Seeker,” Claudia repeats, thinking aloud as they begin to make their way up the path. “Cassandra… Pentaghast?”

“Yes,” Cassandra replies tersely. The stones and snow crunching under her boots speak more than she does. As they pass a barricade, one of the men behind it stands and salutes.

“Right Hand of the Divine,” Claudia says. “I believe - believed - in Justinia. A moderate voice, with compassion for both sides. It must have been an honor to serve her.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you speak too much?” Cassandra snarls.

“Well -” Claudia’s retort is ripped from her as the mark flares, the mouth in her hand tearing at muscle and tendon and bone. She falls to her knees again, gasping, tempted to thrust her hand into the snow in the hope that the cold will numb the pain.

Again, Cassandra pulls her to her feet, not without gentleness. “The pulses are coming faster now,” she says grimly. “The larger the Breach grows, the more rifts appear and the more demons we face.”

“I don’t understand,” Claudia says, trailing after Cassandra. “How did I survive when so many others didn’t?”

“They say…” Cassandra pauses, looking back over her shoulder. “You stepped out of a rift, then fell unconscious. They say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was.”

_ CassiaAndrasteMother, please - _

“I - I…” But she cannot say whether she remembers or not.

Cassandra continues up the path. For a moment there is quiet, save for the rumbles and distant explosions from the Breach. When Claudia arrived in Haven, she thought it charming, the Frostbacks reminiscent of the heights of the Vimmark Mountains in deep winter. Now, under the eerie light of the Breach, the dark pine trees loom close and the edge of the cliff seems to creep toward her feet. Bodies lie along the path, mages and templars and some too badly burned to be identified as one or the other.  _ So many dead... _

As they approach the gate to another bridge ahead, Cassandra speaks again. “Everything farther in the valley was laid to waste, including the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I suppose you’ll see soon enough.” Pushing through the splintered gate, she calls ahead to the group of soldiers at the other end of the bridge: “Where is your superior officer? Orders have been -”

Claudia has a single second of warning, granted by the sinister hissing whine from the direction of the Breach, before the Fade-touched blast strikes the bridge. Without thinking, she starts to use it for a prayer -  _ Andraste, grant me - _ and is thrown toward the frozen lake before she can ask for something, luck or strength or perhaps the ability to disappear when in danger and reappear somewhere else. 

That would be a nice skill, she decides as she makes contact with the ice arse-first. Then there’s another hissing whine and a blast nearby and she doesn’t have any more time for serious contemplation. Something dark and malicious-looking is rising from the small crater in the surface of the lake. Cassandra said demons, didn’t she? Claudia’s not a mage, she’s never  _ seen, _ let alone  _ fought, _ a demon before.

“Stay behind me,” Cassandra orders, sword and shield at the ready. She moves forward to engage the demon, but something green and black and hissing and whispering is oozing over the ice toward Claudia. A soldier has been crushed by the stones behind her, his bow laying an arm’s-length from his hand, beside a chest filled with straw, the lid bashed open and weapons falling out - 

She’s fumbling to retrieve a quiver from the chest when the ooze suddenly crystalizes, shooting up from the ice before bursting into green flame and revealing a demon. No more time. She drops the quiver and draws an arrow instead, nocking it quickly and -  _ no armor, go for the head - _ the arrow strikes the demon right where an eye might be if it had eyes. It snarls instead of falling, moving toward her and  _ Andraste have mercy _ , those are some nasty looking claws; Claudia grabs another arrow, dropping to a knee -  _ full draw, if this doesn’t work I’m fucked - _

This time the arrow strikes the demon in the chest, a little less off center than she was aiming, and punches straight through the thing. For an instant, smoke flows slowly from the wound, then picks up speed, pouring out onto the ice and dissipating as the demon collapses.

Cassandra is still fighting the first demon that appeared, the fine paint on her shield scratched by those hideous claws. Claudia nocks an arrow and takes aim, waiting for a shot where she won’t have to worry about hitting the Seeker… there! Cassandra takes half a step back, pivoting on her heel to avoid a strike, and Claudia looses her arrow. This time, it strikes the demon in the stomach -  _ if it has a stomach _ \- and punches through, its smoke-like essence pouring out.

Cassandra looks over the lake quickly for any more threats before she turns toward Claudia. “Drop your weapon,” she orders, “now!”

Claudia stands, raising her hands to show that she holds only a strung bow and no arrows. “I stayed behind you,” she offers. “And I said I would help.”

The warrior huffs, sheathing her sword before she speaks again. “You’re right. I cannot leave you defenseless. Although you claimed you were a physician.”

“Apothecary, physician, ex-mercenary,” Claudia replies. She kneels beside the chest again, digging out the quiver she wanted and then looking for extra arrows to shove into it. “Eight years of training with templar recruits, then I ran away and worked with the Eastern Shield mercenary company for seven years.”

“Give that one to me. I can carry an additional quiver for you,” Cassandra says. Claudia does as she’s told, then starts filling another quiver. “So, you wanted to be a templar?”

Claudia can’t help the laugh that escapes. “My parents sent me to the Chantry to receive a noblewoman’s education. I was too much of a hellion for most of the sisters, so the Revered Mother had me join the recruits for their training. I think she expected me to burn out, but instead I enjoyed it.” She stands, unbuckling her belt to hang the quiver at her hip. “Cassia would have been a better pupil. She was always the good twin.” She looks down as she buckles her belt again. She doesn’t expect sympathy and she doesn’t want pity.

“I… can understand your grief,” Cassandra says stiffly. “Are you ready to continue?”

“After you,” Claudia replies. Carefully, they make their way across the frozen lake, around a rocky bend and toward a gravelly slope that deposits them on the path once more. “Where are your soldiers?” she asks, looking out over the wreckage and small fires that litter the valley.

“At the forward camp, or fighting,” Cassandra says. “We are on our own, for now.”

And so they are, fighting their way step by step along the valley from one nest of demons to another. It feels good to have a bow in her hand, the methodical motions of  _ nock-draw-aim-loose _ clearing Claudia’s mind of everything but the fight. Gradually, the path gives way to the frozen river and the river gives way to ankle-deep snow, but Cassandra seems to know the route. It’s almost a surprise to Claudia when they stop at the bottom of a set of stone steps.

“We’re getting close,” Cassandra says. “You can hear the fighting now.” And indeed, when Claudia tilts her head up, she can hear shouts and the clash of steel. “Come, we must help them.”

At the top of the steps, there is yet another bridge, this one extending only a few lengths before it ends abruptly. Cassandra moves away from the bridge, jumping down from a broken wall to charge ahead into a long-ruined building where a group is battling demons beneath a cluster of green crystal hanging in the air. Claudia remains at the crest of the wall, dropping to one knee to improve her aim. 

_ Nock, draw, aim, loose _ \- and one demon collapses in on itself -  _ nock, draw, aim, loose _ \- that one was only a glancing strike, but the demon is distracted enough for Cassandra to deliver a killing blow -  _ nock, draw, aim, loose _ \- she finishes off a demon that a mage had frozen in place, and now she is out of arrows. She jumps down and trades her bow for a sword left in the grip of a soldier’s corpse, its hilt singed but its blade still sharp. There is a wisp creeping up on the mage, trailing cold mist behind it, and Claudia splits it in half with a grunt of effort.

“Quickly, before more come through!” the mage calls, seizing her by the wrist and dragging her left hand up toward the crystal that shimmers from within, that has now morphed into a tear in the fabric of the world, still hanging in the air -

“Maker!” Claudia cries, more in surprise than in pain. Something has connected between the mark on her hand and the rift, and it  _ pulls _ like it’s trying to drag her in, like it’s trying to drain her blood from her veins, and every muscle from her hand to her shoulder is cramping and then… The rift snaps shut. “Fuck,” Claudia says, and sits down on the cold ground.

“What did you do?” Cassandra asks, looking down at her.

“Ask him,” she retorts, nodding her head toward the mage as she cradles her arm to her chest. “He’s the one that shoved my hand up there.”

“Whatever magic opened the Breach also placed that mark upon her hand,” the mage says. He’s an elf, bald and pale as an ivory carving, in well-worn traveler’s clothes. Not a Circle mage, then. “I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake, and it seems I was correct.” Claudia watches him, almost expecting him to tug at his lapels in a smug, self-congratulatory way. Instead he holds his hand out to her.

“Meaning it could also close the Breach itself,” Cassandra says as the mage helps Claudia to her feet.

“Possibly,” the mage agrees. He folds his hands as he looks to Claudia. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

“Bloody wonderful,” she mutters, barely loud enough to be heard under the crunch of snow as someone approaches.

“Good to know!” a deep and friendly voice announces. “Here I thought we’d be stuck ass-deep in demons forever.” Claudia looks back toward the voice and takes in the dwarf, his crossbow, and his expanse of chest hair. “Varric Tethras. Rogue, storyteller, occasionally unwelcome tagalong.”

“I could have guessed,” she replies. “Claudia Trevelyan, pleased to meet you.”

“You may come to reconsider that stance,” the mage says quietly.

“Aww,” Varric says, feigning disappointment. “I’m sure we’ll all become great friends in the valley, except maybe me and you, Seeker.”

“Absolutely not,” Cassandra says immediately. “Your help is appreciated, Varric, but -”

“Have you been in the valley lately?” Varric asks. “Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me.”

Claudia glances over her shoulder at the mage, one eyebrow raised to ask  _ Are they always like this? _ He only shrugs in response, which could mean  _ Yes and you’ll get used to it _ or  _ I’ve never met these people before. _

After a pause, all Cassandra has to add to the conversation is a disgusted grunt.

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions,” the mage says as Cassandra strides away. “I am pleased to see you still live.”

“As am I,” Claudia replies with a sarcastic tilt of her head.

“He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept,’” Varric explains.

“You know about this thing?”

“Solas is an apostate, well versed in these matters,” Cassandra says, returning with a scabbard and a fistful of arrows. “Here. You might as well keep the sword.”

“Technically, all mages are now apostates,” Solas says, just a tad prickly, as Claudia attaches the scabbard to her belt on the other side from the quiver. “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage. I came to offer whatever help I can give with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of origin.”

“If I can close it, I will,” Claudia replies as she reloads her quiver. “Even if it costs my life.”

“A commendable attitude,” Solas says, bowing his head to her. “Cassandra, you should know - the magic involved here is unlike any I have seen. Your prisoner is no mage. Indeed, I find it difficult to imagine any mage wielding such power.”

“Understood,” Cassandra says quietly. Her voice strengthens as she continues: “We must get to the forward camp quickly.” She sets out to lead the way, Solas following close behind. Claudia pauses, looking back to Varric.

“Well,” he says, “Bianca’s excited!”

“Your… crossbow?” Claudia asks, dredging up memories from  _ The Tale of the Champion. _

“This way, down the bank,” Cassandra calls. “The road ahead is blocked.”

And so they go, down a rocky trail to the frozen river below. At the narrow throat of the ravine, demons are waiting for them. The battle goes faster this time, with Solas throwing spells and Varric adding his bolts to Claudia’s arrows while Cassandra keeps the shades distracted. Ahead, a cabin on the shore is burning. Claudia’s breath catches in her throat for an instant, but the smoke is grey, not black, and does not carry the smell of burning flesh. No one at home.

“Now, I take it you’re from the Free Marches?” Varric asks, at her heels as they trudge uphill.

“I - yes,” Claudia says.

“Accent,” Varric explains, catching the note of surprise in her voice. “I’m from Kirkwall, but you’re from… further east, I think.”

“Ostwick.” She pulls on a sapling for extra momentum as she clambers up a boulder, then reaches back to pull Varric up. “You have a good ear.”

“I’m all kinds of impressive,” Varric says when he’s mounted on the stone, tucking his thumbs into his belt and presenting a proud pose. Claudia laughs, while Cassandra looks back and gives another disgusted grunt. “So, are you innocent?” he asks as they keep walking.

“I don’t know what happened,” Claudia replies. “But I have no reason to have done it, and I certainly don’t know how to make something like  _ that _ happen.” She finishes her sentence looking up at the Breach above, still rumbling and shining like some awful beacon.

“Should’ve spun ‘em a story,” Varric says.

“That’s what  _ you _ would have done,” Cassandra calls over her shoulder.

“It’s less prone to result in premature execution,” he says, defending himself.

“I’ve told the truth,” Claudia says. “That’s my story.”

“Demons ahead!” Solas calls down to the group, effectively ending the conversation.

And of course, there are. Four, bunched up tight on the top of the stairs. Claudia leaves Varric behind and passes Solas on the snow-covered steps carefully, following Cassandra into the fray with her sword drawn. Two strangely glowing wraiths fall back and begin to throw blasts of green energy. She faces off with the smaller shade, while Cassandra moves to take on the larger. It’s the first time she’s struck a demon more substantial than a wisp, and she finds them disconcertingly solid. 

The demon is strong, but Claudia is fast; it swipes at her with its claws and she dances back a step before bringing her blade down to shear its arm off above the elbow. It shrieks at her, a sound like a blade against a whetstone that sets her teeth on edge. Again it attacks, the same swipe from the other arm, and this time Claudia ducks, going down to one knee and coming up to drive her sword into its torso while it’s still completing the movement of the attack. Its own momentum turns it, tearing a gash in its side that gapes open, pouring forth spirit-essence until there isn’t enough to keep the demon upright.

Claudia stays low, and a bolt from Varric’s crossbow whizzes over her head to strike one of the wraiths squarely in the middle of the chest it seems to have. The bolt sticks, and the wraith looks down at it as though in surprise before it vanishes and the bolt clatters to the stone. To her left, Cassandra is still fighting the greater shade, holding it back with her shield. Claudia tumbles forward, rolling to come up behind the demon. Cassandra presses forward to plunge her blade into the shade’s chest and Claudia’s sword meets the shade’s back as it tries to move away. For the instant that the demon remains whole while bleeding smoke, it throws its claws up in defeat.

“Well done,” Cassandra says, looking down at Claudia over the rag-like remnants of the shade.

“I do my best to please,” Claudia replies, with a wink that makes Varric chortle and Cassandra scowl. Smiling, Claudia stands and sheathes her sword.

“I hope Leliana made it through this,” Cassandra murmurs. Though she’s looking northeast, she seems to be seeing something the others cannot.

“She’s resourceful, Seeker,” Varric says reassuringly, coming up to pat Cassandra on the hip.

“We will see for ourselves when we reach the forward camp,” Solas says, following Varric up the last few steps. “We’re almost there.”

_ Almost there _ is a relative term. They have a short distance to cover, but another rift and another four demons are between them and the gate to the camp. This time Claudia keeps to her bow, wanting to save her energy before the rift tries to pull her hand off. Varric takes out the wraith on the left with a well-placed shot while Claudia does the same to the one on the right. Solas freezes both shades in their tracks, and Cassandra steps forward to take the head off one before she slices the other open from shoulder to waist.

“Hurry!” Solas calls. “Use the mark!”

It’s what she’s here for, isn’t it? Claudia braces her feet and reaches up. Again the rift pulls at her hand, threatening to tug her forward, but she leans back, trying to ride the pain rather than letting it take her.  _ Remember when Sophie was born - that was worth the pain - this is worth the pain - _

The rift swallows itself and vanishes. Suddenly, Varric’s hand at her hip and Solas’s hand on her shoulder are the only things keeping her upright. “I don’t want to think what closing the big one will be like,” Claudia mumbles, dizzily clutching her hand to her chest.

“You’re doing great,” Varric assures her as Solas slings her right arm over his shoulders to help her walk into the camp.

Cassandra has already ordered the gates opened and crossed the bridge to speak to her counterpart and some man in Chantry garb. Solas helps Claudia to sit on one of the many crates nearby while Varric rummages through his pockets.

“Here,” Varric says, producing a health potion in a scratched glass vial. “Drink up, kid. You look like you could use it.”

Claudia downs the potion in one long swig - the faster she drinks, the less she has to taste it - and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “If you’re trying to nickname me, Master Tethras, I don’t think that one is a good fit. I have two children of my own.”

“Yeah?” Varric asks.

Before he can continue, Cassandra calls from her place beside the table with Lady Nightingale and the Chantry brother. “Trevelyan!” When Claudia looks toward her, Cassandra gestures for her to come over.

“Thank you, Varric,” Claudia says softly, returning the now-empty vial to him as she stands.

“Chancellor Roderick, this is -”

“I know who she is,” the chancellor snaps, cutting Leliana off. “As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution.” Claudia looks at him dully, unimpressed.

“Order me?” Cassandra snarls, stepping toward him. “You are a glorified clerk. A bureaucrat!”

“And you are a thug, but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!” the chancellor replies.

“We serve the Most Holy, chancellor, as you well know.” Leliana’s voice is even, but carries an edge.

“Justinia is dead!” the chancellor barks.

As he continues speaking, Claudia leans toward Cassandra. “Is he going to say something important at some point, or can I sit down again?” she asks in a whisper.

“Stay here,” Cassandra says quietly.

“Seeker,” the chancellor says, and Cassandra looks back to him. “Call a retreat. Our position here is hopeless.”

“We can stop this before it’s too late,” Cassandra insists.

“How?” he asks. “You won’t survive long enough to reach the Breach, even with all your soldiers.”

“We must get to the temple. This is the quickest route.” The Seeker points emphatically on a map laying on the trestle table, weighted down with empty glass vials and small stones.

“But not the safest,” Leliana says. “Our forces can charge as a distraction while we go through the mountains.” She points out a different path.

“Listen to me,” the chancellor says. “Abandon this now, before more lives are lost -”

The rumble of the Breach expanding once more cuts him off. The mark on Claudia’s hand flares, the light a green so bright it’s all but white, and she grits her teeth to keep from crying out. When she’s able to focus again, she finds all three Chantry officials looking at her.

“How do you think we should proceed?” Cassandra asks. “You are the one we must keep alive.”

“We charge with the soldiers, then,” Claudia says. “I won’t risk lives on a distraction. Whatever happens, happens now.”

Cassandra nods and turns to her counterpart. “Leliana, bring everyone left in the valley. Everyone.”

“On your head be the consequences,  _ Seeker _ ,” the chancellor hisses.

“On mine,” Claudia says, harshly enough to startle him.

The path beyond the last bridge is even worse than earlier climbs. The stone steps are buried in snow at some points, slick with ice at others, and gravel makes for precarious footing in yet other places. Claudia keeps her head down, focusing on where she places her feet rather than where she’s headed or the soldiers marching around the group at her order. She’s commanded men before, asked them to put their lives on the line, but never so many, never any that she didn’t know and consider a friend. 

More wreckage. More snow and ice. More bodies. Ahead, someone is crying for help.

“Please, he’s wounded!” the person calls, and Claudia raises her head involuntarily. At the top of the steps, one soldier is holding another that clutches at his abdomen.

“Cassandra!” Claudia calls. The Seeker is a few steps ahead, and returns when she sees Claudia throwing the injured soldier’s arm over her shoulders.

“There is little time to… spare,” Cassandra says, changing the final word at the last second. Even so, she takes the soldier’s other arm and helps Claudia move him away from the path. Together, they lay him on a piece of singed canvas spread over the snow.

“Let me see,” Claudia murmurs. She nudges away the soldier’s hands and begins to examine the wounds under his armor. “You,” she says to the other soldier, “do you know where a mage healer can be found?”

“Tried, mistress,” is the reply. The soldier sniffles and rubs his nose with his sleeve. “None about up here. Is there aught you can do for him?”

Claudia hesitates, then moves the soldier’s armor back into place. “You can do the most for him now,” she says softly, standing and placing a hand on the other soldier’s shoulder. “Keep him warm. If you can write, see if there’s anyone he’d like a letter sent to.”

“You have served well,” Cassandra says, though her hand is on Claudia’s shoulder to tug her away. “Stay here with your friend, soldier.”

They are already a few steps away when the soldier calls his thanks after them. Claudia keeps her head down and watches where she puts her feet.

More bodies. More injured. More demons. Another Fade rift. Loose stones clatter under their feet as they fight. These demons are different, spindly and bony, all long fingernails and sharp teeth. Claudia’s glad to have enough arrows - these terrors are as fast as she is, or faster, and she can’t vanish into the ground and pop out of it in the perfect location to run someone through from behind.

The rift hisses and spits gobbets of light like a rabid beast as Claudia links her hand to it and starts to close it. This time, she pulls against it as it pulls against her. By the time it closes, her legs and back are screaming, but her hand and arm hurt less.

The cramps in her arm are just starting to ease off when one of the soldiers - their commander, probably, to judge by that impressive fur mantle - steps forward to speak to Cassandra. “You managed to close the rift?” he asks her. “Well done.”

“Do not congratulate me, Commander,” Cassandra says, still a little out of breath from when one of the terrors slammed her against a wall. “This is the prisoner’s doing.”

“Claudia Trevelyan,” she says to introduce herself. She takes a step toward him, wobbling more from rubble underfoot than from post-rift-closing dizziness. “At your service, Commander,” she adds as he clasps her outstretched hand.

“I hope they’re right about you,” he replies, his tone a little sharp. “We’ve lost a lot of people getting you here.”

“Whatever I can do to help, I will,” she promises, for the third or fourth time today. “I can’t promise I’ll be able to close the Breach, but I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all we can ask, I suppose.” He steps away, looking to Cassandra again. “The way to the temple should be clear. Leliana will try to meet you there.”

“Then we’d best move quickly,” Cassandra says. “Give us time, Commander.”

“Maker watch over you,” the commander says, before glancing back at Claudia. “For all our sakes.”

She can’t help but give him a casual salute in response. For an instant, before he turns away to help a wounded soldier, she thinks she sees the ghost of a smile on his lips.

The Temple of Sacred Ashes is… worse than anything Claudia’s ever seen. Worse than the nest of blood mages who’d made their lair west of Ansburg, where her fellow mercenaries decided to bury the entrance to the caves rather than venture any deeper into the blood-stained tunnels. Worse than the little village north of Markham where slavers had taken or slaughtered every living thing, men and women and children, dogs and cows and horses. Worse than watching the docks at Kirkwall burn in the attack by the Qunari, not knowing how many of her friends and loved ones were there fighting to get innocents onto boats to safety.

Claudia doesn’t speak. She doesn’t watch her feet, because she can’t stand seeing finger bones with rings melted in place, scraps of ash fluttering in the wind, burned bodies curled up like children. She stares ahead, picking her way through the maze. The sooner she gets to the center, the sooner she can do what little she can to make this right.

They end up on a balcony, looking up at the Breach. Behind her, Claudia can hear Cassandra and Leliana speaking, but their voices echo in a strange way that she almost can’t understand. There is a ringing note hanging in the air, like nothing she’s ever heard before… 

“Claudia.” From the faint scowl on Cassandra’s face when she looks, it isn’t the first time the Seeker has tried to get her attention. “This is your chance to end this,” she says. “Are you ready?”

She nods. She thinks if she opens her mouth, she’ll say  _ I’m afraid I’ll never see my children again. _ She doesn’t want to say that.

“This rift was the first,” Solas says from beside her, “and is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.”

“Then let’s find a way down,” Cassandra says, then adds, “and be careful.”

Claudia keeps a hand on the stone wall as they descend. There are voices, whispers, echoes, ringing through her head and through her bones.

_ “I shall lay thee here, my lady,” _ a man with a rough Ferelden accent whispers.  _ “Where thou canst gaze ever into thy Maker’s sky.” _

_ “Andraste reborn!” _ another man thunders, his voice deeper than the first.

_ “A High Dragon is not a joke -” _ a third man says, but is cut off abruptly. Behind her, Claudia can hear Leliana murmur a name, too quiet to make out.

_ “Now is the hour of our victory,” _ a fourth voice says in a rumble like an avalanche, somehow closer than the others.

“What are we hearing?” Cassandra asks.

“Things that have come to pass in the temple, I think,” Leliana answers. “I heard Alistair, when he came here with the Warden-Commander, and before that, the man who was the head of the cult that built Haven.”

_ “Bring forth the sacrifice,” _ the last voice continues.

“And at a guess, that one is the person who created the Breach,” Solas says.

After another moment, the voices quiet down. Claudia tries not to relax at the lapse - she has no reason to believe they won’t return. In front of her, Varric seems to have the opposite reaction, growing more anxious and flinching away as they pass an outcropping of red crystal.

“You know this stuff is red lyrium, Seeker,” he whines nervously.

“I see it, Varric,” Cassandra replies, her voice even but tense.

“But what it’s  _ doing  _ here?” Varric asks.

“Magic could have drawn on lyrium beneath the temple, corrupted it,” Solas says.

“What is red lyrium?” Claudia asks.

Varric winces at the question. “It’s evil,” he says. “Whatever you do, don’t touch it.”

They turn a corner, and like a sudden gust of wind, the voices begin again.

_ “So Andraste said to her followers,” _ a young woman says, her voice strong and unshakeable as she declaims the words from the Chant of Light, “ _ ‘You who stand before the gates, you who have followed me into the heart of evil, the fear of death is in your eyes; its hand is upon your throat.’” _

“That is Elissa,” Leliana murmurs. “She always had a good memory for the Chant.”

_ “A dream came upon me as my daughter slumbered beneath my heart,” _ another woman says, an older woman with sorrow in her voice.  _ “It told of her life and her betrayal and death…” _

_ “Please, help me!” _ a third woman cries, her Orlesian accent thick with fear.

Cassandra starts, instinctively looking up as though she might see the speaker. “That is Divine Justinia,” she hisses.

As they continue, the wall crumbles away until the group stands on the edge of a small cliff, the ground not far below. The Breach, on the other hand, is very,  _ very _ far overhead. The mark on Claudia’s hand crackles, and she bites her lip.

_ “Someone, help me!” _ Divine Justinia calls again from the Fade.

_ “What’s going on here?” _ another woman asks, half afraid and half angry.

Claudia doesn’t recognize it until Cassandra looks at her. “That was your voice,” the Seeker says. “Most Holy called out to you…”

The green Fade-crystal throbs like a beating heart, then lets out a pulse of white light that has everyone shading their eyes. When the light fades, ghostly images hang in the air: Divine Justinia restrained with coils of magic, a tall and mangled figure with eyes of red flame, and… Claudia. She blinks up at the image of herself - yes, that’s her hair pulled back in its usual bun, her scarred cheek from taking a shield-blow to the face, her pale hand creeping toward the knife on her belt…

_ “Run while you can! Warn them!” _ the image of Divine Justinia cries.

_ “We have an intruder, _ ” the shadowy figure rumbles.  _ “Kill her, now!” _

The crystal pulses with light again, and the images disappear.

“You  _ were _ there,” Cassandra growls. “Who attacked? What happened to the Divine? What are we seeing?”

“I don’t know, I don’t remember!”

“These are only echoes of what happened here,” Solas says, stepping toward the edge of the pit. “The Fade bleeds into this place. This rift is not sealed, but it is closed… albeit temporarily. I believe that with the mark, the rift can be opened and then sealed properly, and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.”

“That means demons,” Cassandra calls, looking back at the archers positioned above. “Stand ready!”

Soldiers stream past them, taking up positions below the Breach while Varric and Claudia move toward the edge to stand beside Solas. Above, she can hear the wood-on-wood sounds of dozens of arrows being readied.

“Leliana,” Claudia says as Lady Nightingale begins to pass her on the way to an archer’s perch. “What was the verse the Warden-Commander was reciting?”

The spy-mistress almost smiles. “Andraste’s sermon at the siege of Minrathous.  _ ‘Raise your voices to the heavens. Remember, not alone do we stand on the field of battle.’ _ ”

Claudia nods to Lady Nightingale, and Leliana returns the gesture before she moves away. She wants to pray - this time she remembers the words - but her throat feels frozen shut. Instead, she raises her hand toward the Breach.

The pull is like nothing she’s felt before, like she’s tied to a stone taking her to the bottom of the sea, and she can’t stop the groan of pain and effort that escapes her as she fights it. She can hear crackles of lightning jumping from one stone to another, can feel sparks leaping up from the ground to sting the fingers of her other hand. Abruptly, the  _ pull _ changes to a  _ push _ , knocking her back. For an instant, she lays on the stone -  _ did it work? is the Breach closed? _ \- and then she hears the unnatural roar.

Delightful.

Claudia sits up just in time to see several dozen arrows slam into the immense demon’s chest and shoulders. They seem nothing more than irritations; the demon swipes a clawed hand across its chest, snapping arrow-shafts as easily as brushing away an insect.

“What the  _ fuck _ is that?” she hisses as she grabs her bow and takes up a position to shoot from.

“A pride demon,” Solas says through gritted teeth, throwing one blast of ice after another at the demon’s head. “One of the strongest denizens of the Fade.”

“You wanna forget about using words like ‘denizens’ and focus on taking this thing down?” Varric asks. The  _ twang _ of his crossbow’s string comes at even intervals, and within a moment, Claudia has fallen into rhythm with him. This fight is easier for her than the others - the demon towers over the soldiers, easily twice their height or more, and its scaled chest and head make for a good target. She has to stay focused on the actions of shooting -  _ nock, draw, aim, loose _ \- has to stay focused or her shooting falters as the demon lashes out at the soldiers crowded around its legs, knocking back a dozen men in a single swipe of its claws.

“More coming through the rift!” Cassandra cries. 

Above their heads, the Fade-crystal of the rift collapses in on itself, tearing itself inside out to open a portal through which wraiths and shades pour like water from a broken pitcher. Seamlessly, the three ranged fighters change targets - Varric picks off demons clambering up the stone toward them, Solas slicks the walls beneath other archers’ perches with ice, and Claudia takes out one demon after another going for the backs of the soldiers below. A clatter beside her distracts her for an instant, and she looks away from the battle to find a generous pile of extra arrows at her knee and a scout laden with a dozen half-empty quivers sprinting toward the next group of archers. Leliana’s doing, no doubt.

By the time the pride demon begins to waver, its great blows coming more slowly, Claudia’s arms and shoulders ache from strain. Three empty vials of lyrium are scattered around Solas’s feet, and Varric is sweating despite the chill in the air. The demon falls to one knee, still trying to push away the soldiers that surround it, but now their swords dig into its clawed hands and scaled arms. Smokey demonic essence flows from its wounds freely, and it collapses further, now supporting itself on one hand.

“Now!” Cassandra calls. “Close the rift!”

Claudia throws her hand up - 

_ Maker have mercy, it hurts. _

\- and links it with the rift -

_ too tired, my babies, forgive me _

\- she can’t fight it, she lets the pull take her -

_ CassiaAndrasteMother, please - _

\- and the last thing she hears is the boom of a thunderclap.

_ Give me your hand! _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains semi-graphic descriptions of an animal being hunted and prepared as food. If this disturbs you, read until "She takes the shot" and skip ahead to "Why do you say that?"

She dreams -

_Ian is with her in the great room of the Trevelyan hunting lodge, the fire crackling merrily beside them as they sit in matching, deeply plush armchairs. She knows it’s a dream a little, in the back of her mind, because he had never been here - would never be here - was never here. But for now, he is here, his green eyes laughing and his blonde hair shining like gold in the firelight._

_“Tell me about them,” he asks, his Starkhaven burr thick with excitement._

_“Myron is so tall now, even though he’s only ten. He looks so much like you.” She reaches out to stroke her husband’s cheek. “And he acts so much like you - always running from one place to another and so eager to learn. I gave him a wooden sword and shield last Satinalia, and he’s so proud to practice with them.”_

_“Does he remember me?” Sorrow flickers in his beautiful eyes._

_“A little. He was only three when…”_

_“Yes.”_

_“He remembers when we took him to the seaside. He says he remembers standing in the waves holding your hand, looking up at you standing as tall as a knight, and knowing you loved him.”_

_“And Sophia? I never met her…”_

_“She has your eyes. From the day she was born, green as emeralds. The moment I saw them, I cried and cried, I wanted you to be there so much.”_

_“Maybe I was watching,” he teases._

_She smiles sadly and takes his hand. “I tell her about you. I tell both of them. Your bravery and your laugh and your love. Sophie thinks our wedding was dreadfully romantic.”_

_He laughs. “Sneaking away from the company for a night -”_

_“- to find a half-drunk Sister to say the vows,” she finishes for him, laughing._

_“I would have given you a grand Chantry wedding if I could have.”_

_“I never wanted one. I only wanted you. You made me happier than I had ever been.”_

_“One day, you’ll see me again.” He stands, taking her hands and drawing her to her feet._

_“My last day,” she murmurs, stepping close enough that their lips almost touch._

_“And not today.” He kisses her, hot and fervent and sweet, so sweet._

\- and she wakes, tears in her eyes.

Claudia throws her arm across her face, hiccuping out a sob. Seven years, and she still picks up maps, thinking _Ian will love this_ before she remembers. Seven years, and she still expects to hear him call out to her when she walks into a tavern. He isn’t always her first thought in the morning and her last thought at night, as he was for months after his death. He isn’t always the embrace she dreams of, as he was for years. But she will always have some small part of him in her heart and in her children. She scrubs at her eyes and sits up.

And immediately, she’s disoriented - by the unfamiliar cabin, by the ache in her hand, by the elf who gasps and drops the box she’s carrying with a tinkle of broken glass.

“I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!” the woman says.

“It’s all right,” Claudia says, trying to contain her usual morning scowl. “Where am I?”

“I -” The woman falls to her hands and knees. “I beg your forgiveness and your blessing. I am but a humble servant.”

Claudia groans, resting her head on her hand. “I don’t know who told you to do that, but _don’t.”_

“I, uh -” The elf sits back on her heels. A bit better than supplication, at least. “You are in Haven, my lady. They say you saved us. The Breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand, and it’s all anyone’s talked about in days!”

“Days?” Claudia repeats.

“Y-yes, my lady. It’s been three days.”

“Maker’s balls,” she mutters, and gets a small _eep_ of surprise out of the servant.

“I - I should go,” the woman says, starting to stand. “Lady Cassandra will want to know you’re awake. ‘At once,’ she said.”

“Wait,” Claudia says, and she freezes. “Are my things here?”

“Yes, my lady, right over there.” She points, already edging toward the door. “I - I have to -”

“Go on.” Claudia gives her a nod, and the servant disappears in a flurry of snow and a slam of the cabin’s door.

With a groan as each and every one of her joints protests, Claudia stands up. As indicated, her saddlebags are in one corner, left atop a barrel with a bucket of water beside it. She wonders briefly how whoever fetched her things could tell them apart from the belongings of the rest of the Ostwick delegation. When she looks more carefully, she realizes whoever brought her saddlebags simply brought _all_ of the delegation’s luggage.

There had been six of them when they set out from Ostwick; the Grand Cleric had taken ill on the ship to Highever and returned home rather than ride on to the Conclave. Her beloved protegé, the Revered Mother who managed the city clinic, continued in her place. Mother Gael had been of an age with Claudia’s eldest sisters, and eternally delighted when Claudia pointed out one healing herb or another growing wild by the roadside. Aldous Deverille was the Teyrn’s official representative, a member of his private court and married to one of his younger daughters, with a son Sophia’s age at home in Ostwick. Bann Carew had been an advocate for mages for decades, his brother and his son both in the Circle. He had wanted to see them as badly as Claudia had wanted to see Cassia. Reed Seward was a moderate for the templars, horrified by events in Kirkwall on both sides. His family had received a letter from a cousin, a templar in Orlais, begging for their help in returning to Ostwick. And Claudia: the mercenary, the healer, the spy.

Dead men’s clothes, she thinks, and shivers.

She washes with the sliver of rosemary soap she brought from home, combs and pins up her hair, and dresses in her own clothes. Clean underthings first, then a linen shirt, leggings, and stockings. A brown wool serge shirt follows, and then a tan felted wool vest, an article of clothing that one of her sisters-in-law has been at, to judge by the acorns embroidered around the collar and hem. She steps into her leather breeches and then into her boots, both treated to keep the damp out. Her belt, with its many pouches askew from a search but contents intact, settles comfortably at her hips. Last, she shrugs into her long coat. The soft druffalo fur of its lining is more effective at keeping her warm than any wool, and the thick hide is as strong as any light armor.

Feeling prepared, Claudia opens the door.

A dozen Fereldan soldiers are standing at attention outside, holding back curious onlookers.

Claudia closes the door, feeling far less prepared, and climbs out the window.

It doesn’t do her as much good as she had hoped, since she finds the village wall rises on her left behind the cabin. She won’t be able to escape that easily, it seems. If she remembers correctly, the Chantry is at the southern end of the small town. It’s the opposite direction from the gates, but it’s also the opposite direction from that crowd. That makes it as good a place to head as anywhere, and if she’s lucky, there may be another exit nearby that she can use to slip out. They need her to close the rifts? Fine. But she’ll do it on her own terms, not as the Chantry’s prisoner.

Claudia follows the wall, slinking from the shadows of one cabin to another. When she hears voices, she ducks down to hide beside a woodpile.

“They say when she came out of the Fade, Andraste herself was watching over her,” a man says.

“Then why did Lady Cassandra have her in chains?” a woman asks. “I thought the Seekers knew everything.”

“It’s complicated,” the man says, as though his answer is obvious. “We were all frightened after what happened to the Conclave.”

“It isn’t complicated,” the woman replies. “Andraste herself blessed her, didn’t she?”

“That’s what they’re saying.” Claudia can hear water being poured out, then a door is shut and she can no longer hear the conversation. She closes her left hand tightly over the strange arcane mark and says a prayer in the hope that, against all the odds, the pair had not been talking about her.

Further along the curve of the wall, she finds a short set of steps hacked into the stone rise. At the top of the steps is an ancient pine, its boughs too thick to creep past. With a sigh, she gives up the act and trudges over to the main path.

The soldiers don’t seem to be under orders to stop her - quite the opposite. Claudia keeps her head down and ignores them as they salute her, suspecting some incomprehensible joke. She walks obstinately on, quickly reaching the gaggle of Chantry brothers and sisters gathered outside the stone building. As quietly as she can, she starts to make her way through them, not really listening to the various conversations going on.

Then someone calls, “Go in peace, Herald of Andraste!”

She has no idea what that means and no inclination to stop and find out, so she keeps walking. Others have noticed now, however, and turn toward her. Their voices rise and fall like waves: “The Herald - Maker watch over you, Herald of Andraste - will you bless us, Herald?” Someone pulls at her sleeve and she wrenches away, pushing through the last few people between her and the Chantry until she can place the solid wooden doors at her back.

“I don’t know who told you to call me that,” she says sharply, “but don’t_._”

The murmurs of the crowd are disappointed. “You have been blessed - Andraste herself - Herald, won’t you -”

“_Don’t_ do it,” Claudia orders, more out of desperation than because she believes it will stop them, and throws herself into the sanctuary of the Chantry.

It isn’t her most graceful exit of all time, but no one seems inclined to follow her. For a moment, she closes her eyes and appreciates the solitude. Then the Seeker’s voice lashes out, sharp even though it’s muffled - “I do not believe that!”

Claudia swallows a groan of dismay.

“That is not for you to decide,” the pompous chancellor replies, his voice equally distant. Curious despite herself, Claudia moves closer to the door at the back of the hall. “Your duty is to serve the Chantry.”

“My duty is to serve the principles on which the Chantry was founded, Chancellor.” Cassandra’s voice is cold and venomous, and she continues, “As is yours.”

Someone flings the door open, and although Claudia jumps back quickly, she isn’t fast enough. “There she is!” the chancellor snarls. “Seize her!” One of the guards inside the door grabs her by the arm. Although she fights him, he drags her into the room. “I want her chained and prepared for travel to the capital for trial,” the chancellor declares.

“And I’d like to feed your balls to a mountain lion, though it might be a small meal,” Claudia spits in reply.

“Disregard those orders,” Cassandra snaps, standing straight from her position leaning on the large meeting table. Beside her, Sister Leliana watches impassively. The guard releases Claudia, and she ignores him in favor of brushing off the arm of her coat emphatically. “Leave us.” As Claudia starts to back out, the Seeker huffs. “Not you, Trevelyan.”

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker,” the chancellor says.

“The Breach is stable, but it is still a threat. I will not ignore it,” Cassandra replies. “Trevelyan, come in and close the door.”

Claudia sighs, but does as she’s told. “You said there are other rifts. I would much prefer to be out, closing them, than here.” She gives the chancellor a cold look.

“You have done enough,” he says. “Your actions will be taken into account by the new Divine.”

“Oh, you’ve single-handedly selected one already?” Claudia mocks.

“The Breach is not the only threat we face,” Cassandra says before the chancellor can respond.

“_Someone_ was behind the explosion at the Conclave,” Leliana says. “Someone Most Holy did not expect.” Claudia has a ready sarcastic reply for that, but bites her tongue. She respects Lady Nightingale too much to make fun of her. “Perhaps they died with the others, or have allies who yet live.” Pointedly, she directs her gaze at the chancellor.

“I am a suspect?” he demands, sounding both angered and astonished.

“You, and many others,” Leliana agrees.

“But _not_ the prisoner,” he says, sneering at Claudia.

“I heard the voices in the temple,” Cassandra says before Claudia can snipe at him. “The Divine called out to her for help.”

“So her survival, that _thing_ on her hand, all a coincidence?”

“Providence,” Cassandra declares. Both Claudia and the chancellor stare at her. “The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour.”

“No!” Now everyone is looking at Claudia, and she throws her hands up. “I am willing to put up with all kinds of madness - magical explosions, rifts into the Fade with murderous demons pouring out, the fact that someone or some_thing_ saved me - but blasphemy of this degree is too fucking far. I don’t know who came up with the idea that I’m the Herald of Andraste - I suspect you -” She points an accusing finger at Lady Nightingale. “But no, I am not fucking doing this. I will do everything I can to help, I will close as many rifts as I can, but you are _not_ turning me into some insane holy figurehead!”

“We are all subject to the will of the Maker, whether we wish it or not,” the Seeker replies stoically. “No matter what you believe, you are exactly what we needed when we needed it.”

“Andraste’s tits, you really think the Maker would choose a woman who ran away to join a mercenary company rather than live as a Chantry sister to be your personal fucking savior?” Claudia snarls. “Why not the Divine? Why not -” _my sister, when she was always the better one of us?_ Suddenly, her anger is gone, replaced with grief and horror. She closes her mouth with a snap and leans heavily on the table. _It should have been Cassia. This is all a mistake._

“The Breach remains,” Leliana says, although her voice sounds distant. “Your mark is still our only hope of closing it.”

“This is not for you to decide,” the chancellor insists.

Cassandra slams a heavy book onto the table, and Claudia jumps, startled out of her thoughts. “You know what this is, Chancellor,” the Seeker growls. “The decrees of the Divine, granting us the authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.” She abandons the tome, advancing on the chancellor and forcing him toward the wall as he backs away. “We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order, with or without your approval.”

“So be it,” the chancellor says, and leaves. The door slams shut behind him. The Seeker shakes her head, apparently regretting her actions.

“What does all of this really mean?” Claudia asks, looking across the table to Leliana.

“Before the Conclave, Divine Justinia gave us this directive,” Lady Nightingale says, laying a hand on the book. “To rebuild the Inquisition of old. To find those who would stand against the chaos.”

“The Inquisition of old was madness! They hunted down anyone who went against what _they_ deemed to be the Maker’s commandments -”

“The Inquisition banded together to restore order to a world gone mad,” Cassandra interrupts, trying to stare Claudia down.

“If you intend to bring order by the sword, I will have none of it,” Claudia snarls. “What do you suppose people will think if you’re forced to drag your precious Herald around in chains?”

“You should know that while some believe you have been chosen, many still think you guilty,” Cassandra says. “The Inquisition can only protect you if you are with us.”

“What an eloquent threat, Seeker,” Claudia replies.

“We are hardly sworn to end violence with violence,” Leliana interrupts. “As it stands, we could not do so if we wanted to. We have no leader, no numbers, and now no Chantry support.”

“Either way, we have no choice.” Cassandra shakes her head. “We must act, and we need you at our side.”

Claudia sighs. “I have a duty to help if I am capable of doing so. But the moment you begin to pursue people for opposing you, I am done. I will venture on my own to close these rifts if I have to.”

“That is all we ask,” Leliana says.

“And now?” Claudia asks.

“Now, our work begins,” Cassandra replies.

Unfortunately, reality is not as exciting as fiction. Where a Tethras novel would have segued into a dramatic montage of letters being sent off and the reformation of the Inquisition being announced, Leliana vanishes to hunt down some clerks, Cassandra leaves to find the blacksmith, and Claudia is left with time on her hands. Not for lack of trying - apparently there are no more rifts within a day’s walk of Haven, and her captors are loath to let her travel further. The people of Haven are either skittish and suspicious or overly fawning, and in avoiding them, she finds herself returning to the little cabin she woke up in to retrieve her weapons, a pair of gloves and a scarf, and a few useful tools. Supplies are low, and she is a practiced hunter. Rather than heading straight out, though, she returns to the campfire where Varric had been sitting when she passed by.

Her makeshift disguise is apparently effective - the dwarf looks up at her without a sign of recognition until she flips back the hood of her coat and pulls down the scarf wrapped around her face. “I’m going hunting,” she says without preamble. “Would you like to join me?”

“In ass-deep snow? Thanks, Princess, but I’m good where I am.” Varric rubs his hands together and holds them out toward the fire as if chilled by the very thought.

“You might be warmer if you buttoned your shirt,” Claudia teases. “And, ‘Princess’?”

“Not working for you?” he asks. When she shakes her head, he shrugs. “I’ll keep trying.”

“I’d give it to you if my father was the teyrn of Ostwick, but he’s only a bann.”

“Hmm,” Varric says with a nod. “So, now that the Seeker’s out of earshot, how are you holding up? I mean, you go from the most wanted criminal in Thedas to joining the armies of the faithful.”

Claudia rolls her eyes. “Don’t get me started. This ‘Herald of Andraste’ nonsense is going to get me burned at the stake.”

“Well, I’ll be there with a bucket of water,” Varric promises. “Besides, in this weather, nobody’s wasting wood on a pyre.”

She sighs and leans back against the waist-high stone rise that divides the village in half. “I can’t believe so many people died and - and I was the only one to survive.”

“A lot of good men and women didn’t make it out of there,” he says. “For days now, we’ve been staring at the Breach, watching demons and Maker-knows-what fall out of it. ‘Bad for morale’ would be an understatement. I still can’t believe anyone was in there and lived.”

“I can’t, either, and I was. And now people start talking like the Maker chose me to be saved?” She looks down at her hands. The mark glows faintly, even through her leather gloves. “If He was going to choose anyone, it should have been -” _Cassia._ “It should have been someone better qualified.”

“Qualified?” Varric laughs, but it sounds strained. “There’s nobody qualified for this. Heroes are everywhere, I’ve seen that. But that hole in the sky? That’s beyond heroes. We’re going to need a miracle.”

“Well -” Claudia pushes herself off the wall. “Thank you for the oh-so-cheerful conversation, Master Tethras.”

“Hey.” The dwarf holds up a hand to stop her. “I’m just saying, but you might want to consider running at the first opportunity. I’ve written enough tragedies to recognize where this is going.”

“You think I haven’t already considered it?” she asks. “The only thing I want is to see my children again. But if I have to die so that they and everyone else can live without this - this insanity -” She gestures up at the Breach helplessly. “I will. I don’t want to, but I will.”

For a moment, Varric only looks at her. Then he shakes his head and looks away. “You remind me of someone I used to know,” he says quietly.

“Are they dead?”

“Not as far as I know,” he sighs. “Her boyfriend blew up the Chantry and she had to get out of town pretty quickly.”

“Hawke?” Claudia says. “I don’t know if that’s a compliment or not.”

“Yeah. Me, neither.” Varric shakes his head again and looks up at her. “Good luck on your hunt.”

“Thank you,” Claudia says, and walks away. Maybe she’ll have better luck with Solas.

It takes a few minutes of searching, but her scarf and hood allow her to pass unnoticed, and she’s able to find the elven apostate near the healers’ cabin without being stopped or whispered about. Solas recognizes her where Varric did not, and greets her with a small, faintly sarcastic smile.

“The Chosen of Andraste,” he says. “A blessed hero sent to save us all.”

“Don’t fucking start,” Claudia says, pulling down her scarf. “I’ve already told Varric, I feel like all this blasphemy is going to get me murdered.”

“Joke as you will -”

“I am not fucking joking.”

“This posturing is necessary,” Solas concludes. “I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten. Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.”

“A foul-mouthed one,” Claudia says. “But one who keeps people fed. I’m going hunting. Care to join me?”

Solas cocks his head and looks at her curiously for a few heartbeats. “Certainly,” he finally says. “Allow me to find my things.”

Claudia pulls her scarf back up and leans against the cabin while the mage goes inside. After a moment, he returns, now wearing his thick green jacket and carrying his staff. “So, you were saying something about ancient ruins?” she asks as she starts to lead the way out of town. “I’d like to hear more.”

“Any building strong enough to withstand the rigors of time has a history,” Solas says, matching her pace easily. “Every battlefield is steeped in death. Both attract spirits. They press against the Veil, weakening the barrier between our worlds. When I dream in such places, I go deep into the Fade. I can find memories no other living being has ever seen.”

“You’re a somniari?” she asks, her voice somewhat muffled behind her scarf.

“A Dreamer, yes,” Solas says, looking pleased by her recognition of his talent.

“It must be dangerous for you to sleep in such places. Don’t you have anyone to keep watch for you?”

“I set wards,” he says as they pass the loud merchant and head out the gate. “And if you leave food out for the giant spiders, they generally live and let live.”

“You must find some wonderful things.” Claudia adjusts the hang of her quiver and looks up and down the road. “Left or right?”

“There is a forest to the east, where you should be able to find wild rams.” Solas points to the right as he speaks, then to the left. “To the west is the mine, which I have been informed is rather infested with nugs. Apparently the locals refuse to eat them, as they consider the nug’s hands disturbing.”

“I find birds’ feet disturbing, but you won’t find me turning down a roast chicken.” Regardless, Claudia turns right toward the forest. “I would be the first to admit I don’t know very much about magic, but… what about demons?”

“It is occasionally dangerous, yes,” Solas says. “But mostly, it’s just sad to see what has been lost. And I would not trade the thrill of finding fragments of a thousand-year-old dream for anything.”

“I can only imagine,” she agrees. “But I hope you won’t leave us to pursue more dreams too soon.”

“I intend to remain for now, at least until the Breach is closed.”

Claudia pauses, looking over her shoulder at him. “Was that in doubt?”

“I am an apostate mage surrounded by Chantry forces,” Solas says, with the air of a tutor reminding a student of something they should remember. “Unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me. Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”

“I do understand.” Claudia reaches out to lay her hand on his shoulder. “I have worked with apostates before. If you find yourself in trouble, I will be ready and eager to help.”

“I… thank you,” Solas says hesitantly, seeming a little surprised. “I appreciate your offer. For now, let us hope either the mages or the templars will lend us their aid and we can seal the Breach.”

“What are the templars going to do, wave their swords and threaten to put the Breach in solitary confinement?” Claudia shakes her head and begins walking again. “No. I wouldn’t turn to a templar for help if an abomination was gnawing on my leg.”

“Indeed? I was under the impression you were a faithful Andrastian.”

“I believe in the Maker, I revere the sacrifice of His Bride,” she says. “That doesn’t mean I believe mages should be locked away to be tortured and murdered at the whims of their captors. My sister -”

She doesn’t realize she’s stopped dead until Solas touches her back. “I understand she was lost at the Conclave,” he says gently. Claudia nods, unable to speak for the lump in her throat. “For what it is worth, you have my condolences.”

“Cassia… she was… so much better than me,” she says haltingly. “And they took her away. They locked her up. As punishment for being a mage.” Claudia closes her eyes, fighting back tears. “I would have died to free her. And I will never see her again.”

After a pause, Solas says, “I am sorry.”

Claudia takes a deep breath. The cold air helps her ground herself. “What I wanted to say - Cassia was incredibly privileged and lucky. She was in one of the most lenient Circles outside Tevinter, and that Circle was in the same city as her family. She had anything she wanted. There were still plenty of horror stories.” Solas makes a curious noise, but she shakes her head. “If I say any more right now, we’ll be standing in the middle of the road for hours. Ask me another time.”

“Certainly,” Solas agrees. When Claudia sets off down the slight hill into the forest, he follows.

They pass between the trees quietly - not silently, but close enough. Claudia learned to stalk her prey many years ago, and Solas is as good as she is, or better. Presumably, he’s spent an awful lot of time in the wilds of the world. The sky is clear, with no risk of snow, and the wind is from the west, in their favor. Winter has a solid grasp on Haven. Save for the stout spruces and the tall elegant pines, the trees have yet to bud. The snow on the ground lays in drifts, ankle-deep in some places and knee-deep in others. It’s easy tracking conditions, and the sun has barely shifted in the sky before Claudia finds the trail of a small herd of rams. There are five or six, she decides as she follows the trail. All adults, and the mating season isn’t until later in the season.

The tracks grow steadily fresher as she follows them, the imprints of the rams’ hooves clearer and more defined. The herd is wandering through their territory, untroubled by predators, and the trail meanders between evergreen trees with the tender needles at the ends of their branches eaten and clearings where the animals have dug out the grass under the snow. Where the herd has stopped for long periods of time, Claudia and Solas pass through quickly. They are catching up.

The wind is still in their favor, and the first sign of the rams is a faint smell of musk and grass. As they draw closer, the sounds the herd makes - crunching snow under hooves, the champing of cud being chewed, the occasional grunt and bleat - covers any noise as the hunters approach. Claudia keeps out of sight behind the trees that border the clearing, circling to find a good shot. She finds it behind the branches of a white spruce: a clear broadside angle on the largest male in the herd. He’s the oldest, his nose scarred from years of fighting and the points of his horns worn smooth. Taking him will do the herd no harm - either a younger male will take control or the females will split to join other herds. Slow and silent, she nocks an arrow. His heart lies lower than center mass, his scapula high and out of the way. A good, clean kill. She takes the shot.

The ram grunts and stumbles forward a step. The noise alerts the herd, and before the ram falls to its knees, they flee. Claudia unstrings her bow, no longer needed, and steps into the clearing. Her arrow is lodged deep, and the ram’s blood is already coloring the snow, but she knows better than to approach. A dying beast is a dangerous beast.

“A fine shot,” Solas says as Claudia begins to evaluate the smaller trees lining the clearing. “Where did you learn to hunt?”

“The Planasene Forest,” she answers distractedly. The young birch she has her hand on is too large, and she moves a few steps away to shake a thin pine. “My father began teaching me when I was young. As I grew up, I kept practicing with a bow. It’s a skill that’s been useful.” Satisfied with the pine, she removes the large hunting knife sheathed at her hip and kneels in the snow to begin cutting down the tree.

“Was it easy to transfer your expertise in hunting animals to hunting men?”

“It -” Claudia hesitates, resting her knife against her knee. She hasn’t truly thought about it before. “It was, yes. The first time I killed a person, he was trying to ride me down. It was easy.” Although she suspects Solas has more questions, she returns to chopping away at the pine tree.

“Many find it difficult to kill for the first time,” Solas remarks.

“Technically, or morally?” she asks, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. She stands, sheathing her knife, and wraps both hands around the pine’s small circumference before she pulls to break the last wood fibers keeping it upright. The pine thumps to the ground, and Claudia finds herself looking at Solas. His head is cocked curiously. “A man’s heart and lungs are a larger target than most rabbits, and I’ve taken my fair share of those. If I hadn’t killed him, he would have killed me. I didn’t think about it. I just did it.”

“And the one after that?” he asks. “Have you never killed for any reason but self-defense?”

Claudia sighs. “Cassandra told you I used to be a mercenary, didn’t she?”

“I overheard it stated,” Solas says.

“So you were eavesdropping?” Under lighter circumstances, she would find that fact hilarious. As it is, she shakes her head. “Do you have a good knife?”

“Indeed.” Solas produces a dagger from his boot, smaller than her hunting knife but still sharp.

“Trade with me?” she asks, holding out her own blade. After they’ve exchanged their knives, Claudia moves a few steps over, looking at the fallen pine. “Do me a favor and cut this about… here.” She makes a mark in the snow where the trunk of the tree begins to narrow. “The ram should be dead by now. I’ll gut it and we can carry it back.”

“You have yet to answer my question,” Solas says as he kneels in the snow.

Claudia resists the urge to groan as she makes her way over to the ram. It’s still and silent, no longer living. “I signed on with the Eastern Shield because their healers were some of the best in the Free Marches. It was helpful that I could shoot a bow and swing a sword, but it wasn’t why I was with them.” She removes the arrow, buried to its fletching, from the ram’s side and casts it aside. “I killed in self-defense, and in defense of others. Not for coin, and not for anger.” Solas’s blade slides easily into the ram’s flesh, and she sets to work with it.

“You are from a noble family, are you not?” From the repeated _thunk_ of steel on wood, she guesses Solas is still at work on their carrying pole.

“I may have run away from home years ago, but I am still a Trevelyan of Ostwick,” Claudia says. She’s glad she wore leather gloves and not lighter wool gloves as remnants of the ram’s blood spill over her hands. “Before you ask, I ran away to join the Eastern Shield because my other choices were to marry or to become a Chantry sister. The former, I wasn’t ready for, and the latter, I never wanted.”

“Did you not marry the father of your children?”

“I married him. It was on my own terms and for love, not for gain.” With a grunt and a pull, she finally has the guts free. Taking up the knife again, she sets to separating the heart, liver, and kidneys from the offal. “I used to miss him every day, but I’m not heartsick when I think of him anymore. He gave me everything he had, all his love and our children. I don’t think he would have wanted me to live the rest of my life in his shadow.”

“No good man would ever want that of a lover,” Solas agrees. “Was he a good man?”

“Ian?” Claudia smiles without thinking. “He was kind, and funny, and he always had time for me.” She looks over her shoulder at Solas, still smiling. “He killed people to make his living, but he never frightened me the way some of the others did.”

For a heartbeat, Solas only regards her silently. Then he gives her a small nod, acknowledging her thoughts. “If you are finished, I believe we are ready.”

“Just a moment.” Claudia grabs handfuls of snow to clean the blood from her gloves before she digs into the pouches of her belt to retrieve a length of thin, strong rope. Solas drags over the carrying pole as she lashes the ram’s hooves, and they thread the pole between the animal’s legs. Together, they lift the weight, then turn to follow their own tracks back to Haven.

Claudia is bloody up to her elbows when Cassandra comes to find her. The ram carcass is hanging from an overhanging truss of the tavern’s roof, skinned and cleaned, and Claudia has her knife in the tendons of the right shoulder, trying to get the bone out of its socket so she can joint the leg. The sight visibly gives the Seeker pause, and Claudia enjoys her surprised expression for the instant before she controls herself.

“When you said you were going hunting, I expected a hare or two,” Cassandra says.

“Terrain’s not right up here for hares,” Claudia replies. “And they’re small, besides. This will feed everyone here tonight.” Her knife slips into just the right place, and she twists it, using the blade and her own weight as leverage. After a moment of resistance, the shoulder pops out of place.

“I must admit, I would not have expected you to take on this task yourself.”

“Why?” Claudia grunts, her hands full as she cuts away the last strands of muscle holding the leg in place. “I can do this as well as anyone, and I have nothing else to do.” The leg now separated, she sets it aside on the tarp-covered table beside her. Instead of going back to work on the carcass, she sets down her knife and turns to Cassandra. “I’ve told you - several times - that I have a duty to help where I can. Haven needs food. I can hunt and butcher.”

“Why do you say that?” Cassandra asks. “That you have a duty to help?”

“It’s one of the oaths I swore when I became a physician. More than that, it’s something I believe in.” Claudia picks up the bucket of warm water and sets it on the table, reaching into it for the rag lost at the bottom. “Until the Maker sees fit to turn His gaze on us once more, we only have each other,” she says as she begins scrubbing her arms clean. “If I can heal a person when they need it, I should. If I can feed them, clothe them, shelter them when they need it, I should. And I will, or at least I’ll try.”

“It is a charitable philosophy,” the Seeker says. “You said something else as well, about the Breach-”

“Varric’s a worse gossip than my grand-mère,” Claudia replies, wringing the cloth out and starting to work on her other arm. “And as much as I love her, she’s a little Orlesian old biddy, so you can only _imagine_ how much she gossips.”

“He is not known for keeping his mouth shut,” Cassandra agrees.

“I told him if I had to die to close the Breach, I would, and I will. It’s hardly what I’d consider my first choice, but I will.” Claudia picks at the blood crusted around her fingernails. “I don’t suppose he told you that he encouraged me to run.”

“He did not.” Claudia doesn’t need to look at Cassandra to notice her tension - it’s clear in her voice.

“Another thing I’ll do if I have to,” she states evenly, still picking her nails clean as if they’re discussing the weather or the harvest. “I’m not the kind to fight a duel over ideology, Seeker. If you disappoint me, I’ll simply be gone one morning.”

“If _I_ disappoint _you_?” Cassandra hisses.

Claudia lifts her head to meet the Seeker’s gaze. “I’m here to do one thing,” she says, raising her left hand and letting the mark shine out. “I can do it with or without you. If you stand in my way…” She lowers her hand and shrugs. “I don’t need this. I don’t need soldiers or spies or people to call me ridiculous, heretical names. But you need me.”

To her surprise, rather than reacting angrily, Cassandra sighs through gritted teeth. “Yes, we need you. That is why I came to find you.”

“Where am I going?” Claudia asks, untying and removing the leather apron she borrowed.

“A meeting in the Chantry, to discuss how the Inquisition will proceed.”

“Ah,” Claudia says, a little disappointed, as she rolls down the sleeves of her shirt. “I thought I’d be off down the mountain to close some rifts.”

“Soon,” Cassandra promises. “Your enthusiasm does you credit, Lady Trevelyan.”

Claudia imitates one of the Seeker’s disgusted noises and folds her coat over her arm. “I actually preferred it when you just called me ‘prisoner’,” she says.

Cassandra’s smile is small, but genuine. “Trevelyan, then,” she agrees. “After you.” Claudia gives her a polite nod of acknowledgement and steps around the Seeker to reach the main path. Cassandra follows her, and the snowy gravel crunches under their feet. “It occurs to me that I don’t actually know much about you.”

“I’m sure Leliana has already gathered plenty of information,” Claudia replies.

“I don’t doubt that she has, but I don’t want to ask her,” Cassandra says. “I want to hear it from you.”

“Most of the broad strokes, I think you already know. My family is from Ostwick. When I was eighteen, I ran away from home to join the Eastern Shield.” Claudia sighs. “After my husband died, I went home again. I was pregnant, and my son was so young I couldn’t take any contracts. I was very, very lucky that my family welcomed me back.”

“I did not know…” Cassandra lets the sentence trail away.

“It’s not all doom and gloom,” Claudia assures her. “My skills have made me a valuable asset to my family and to Ostwick. When the College of Enchanters convened in ‘37, I went to Cumberland to keep my ear to the ground. After that, I was a liaison for the Ostwick ambassador to Orlais.”

“You are a spy?” the Seeker asks, startled.

“I gather and pass on information,” Claudia says with a shrug. “I’ve never stolen state documents or hidden in the rafters to eavesdrop on a secret conversation. I listen when people talk, and I share what I hear with my father and the teyrn.”

“That is spying.”

“Then yes, I am a spy.” Claudia smiles at Cassandra placidly, specifically because she thinks it will irritate the Seeker. She wins a disgusted grunt in reply. “Oh, please. You’ve entangled me so much with your precious Inquisition that even if your secrets would do Ostwick any good, I wouldn’t send them.”

“It is as much your Inquisition as it is mine,” Cassandra says. Claudia suspects she’s said it because it will bother her. Fair is fair. “After all, you are the -”

“Do _not,_” Claudia orders, raising a finger in warning. Cassandra smiles, and Claudia shakes her head at herself for having risen to the bait. “You’re the closest to a high Chantry official we’ve got around here, and you really believe that muck?”

“Whether you are truly Andraste’s herald, I cannot say, but I think you were sent to aid us.” Cassandra pauses at the great double doors to the Chantry and rests her hands on the pommel of her sword. “The Maker’s help can take many forms. Sometimes it’s difficult to discern who truly benefits, or how.”

Claudia flexes her left hand. “This thing doesn’t feel much like a benefit.”

“Does it trouble you?” the Seeker asks as she opens the door. Inside the Chantry, the air has been warmed slightly by the many candles that light their way.

“It frightens me,” Claudia answers honestly. “Since we secured the Breach, it only hurts a bit. I just wish I knew what it means.”

“We will find out,” Cassandra assures her. “What’s important is that your mark and the Breach are both stable. You have bought us time.”

“Time for what?” Claudia asks. “How do we know that if I go out and close the rifts, the Breach won’t form more of them?”

“Solas believes a second attempt to close the Breach might succeed, provided the mark has more power. The same level of power used to open the Breach in the first place. That is not easy to come by.”

Claudia nods. “He mentioned something like that earlier - something about the mages and the templars helping to seal the Breach.” Cassandra opens the door to the meeting room, but Claudia holds back a moment. “Don’t tell me you have some mad plan already in place.”

“We have… something in mind,” Cassandra says. Claudia sighs, but follows the Seeker into the meeting room. Another pair have joined the group around the sturdy table - the commander, still wearing that fur mantle that Claudia finds herself terribly jealous of, and a woman in gold and navy silks with a writing board tucked into the crook of her elbow. “You’ve met Commander Cullen Rutherford, leader of the Inquisition’s forces.”

“I hadn’t caught your name before,” Claudia says with a smile. Maker, but he’s a handsome one, all golden hair and dark golden eyes, broad-shouldered and probably muscled like Havard himself under that armor - and now that she has the chance to look at him for more than an instant, he looks familiar.

“It was only for a moment on the field,” he says, returning her smile a little shyly. If she likes his face, she _loves_ his voice. “I’m pleased you’ve survived.”

“And this is Lady Josephine Montilyet,” Cassandra adds. “Our ambassador and chief diplomat.”

“I’ve heard much,” Lady Montilyet says. Her delicate Antivan accent gives the polite words a lilt, but Claudia’s heard a few things about the ambassador herself and knows better than to underestimate the woman just because she looks like a lovely little doll. “A pleasure to meet you at last.”

“_Che piacere conoscerti, ambasciatrice,_” Claudia says. The ambassador raises an eyebrow and smiles in reply, looking pleasantly surprised.

“And of course you know Sister Leliana,” Cassandra concludes.

Leliana inclines her head. “My position here involves a degree of -”

“She is our spymaster,” the Seeker says bluntly.

“Yes,” Leliana agrees with a hint of a wince. “Tactfully put, Cassandra.”

Claudia steps up to the table, looking over the large maps that take up most of the available space. “Cassandra tells me you have some kind of plan.”

“I mentioned that the mark needs more power to close the Breach permanently,” Cassandra says, prompting the others.

“Which means we must approach the rebel mages for help,” Leliana continues smoothly.

“And I still disagree,” Cullen says. Claudia wonders if they’re picking up the thread of an argument that had been taking place before she and Cassandra entered. “The Templars could serve just as well.”

“We need power, Commander,” Cassandra says. Yes, this is clearly a discussion they’ve been having without Claudia. “Enough magic poured into that mark -”

“Might destroy us all,” Cullen interrupts. “Templars could suppress the Breach, weaken it so -”

“Pure speculation,” Leliana says.

“I was a Templar. I know what they’re capable of,” the commander insists, and Claudia looks up from the map. She thinks she knows why he looks familiar now.

“Unfortunately,” Lady Josephine interrupts, “Neither group will even speak to us yet.”

“Perhaps that’s not as unfortunate as it seems,” Claudia replies, deadpan.

Sadly, she doesn’t get a smile out of the ambassador as she’d hoped. “The Chantry has denounced the Inquisition,” Lady Josephine says. “And you, specifically.”

“I told you that Herald of Andraste nonsense would come back to bite us,” Claudia says, pointing at Leliana.

“I did not begin it,” the sister says. “Though I confess, I encouraged it, as I thought it would leverage your claims of innocence.”

“In any case, it has spread widely, and the Chantry is frightened,” Lady Josephine continues. “The remaining clerics of Orlais have declared it blasphemy, and already consider us heretics for harboring you, though most of the rest still reserve judgement.”

“Chancellor Roderick’s doing, no doubt,” Cassandra says.

“Well, I hope nobody here was planning on becoming the new Divine.” Claudia rolls her eyes. “Are we at any risk of attack from them?”

“With what?” Cullen asks, shaking his head. “They have only words at their disposal. Any Chantry forces that survived the explosion are here, and loyal to us.”

“Are we certain of that?” Claudia asks, looking to Leliana.

“We are,” the sister says, folding her hands in front of her.

“Can your Inquisition survive without support from the Chantry?” Claudia looks to Cassandra now. “If I were to leave -”

“We need you,” the Seeker replies.

“And to be honest, they would have censured us no matter what,” the commander adds. “What Chantry support we need, we already have.”

“On the contrary,” Leliana says. “A Chantry cleric, Mother Giselle, is interested in speaking with the Herald.”

“Don’t,” Claudia groans, but Leliana speaks over her.

“She is not far, and knows those involved in the denunciation far better than I. Her assistance could be invaluable.”

Claudia sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “She asked for me specifically, when her colleagues are blaming me for everything short of starting the war?”

“From what I know of her, she is a reasonable woman,” Leliana says. “Perhaps she does not agree with her fellows. She is in the Hinterlands near Redcliffe, ministering to refugees and victims of the rifts.”

“If you think it’s a good use of my time, I’ll go.” Claudia leans in to look at the map again. “Have we started charting these rifts? I’ll want to plan my route by them.”

“Scouts have been sent out to begin the task, but our reach only extends so far,” Cassandra says.

“We need more agents, and you are uniquely suited to find them,” Josephine adds.

“One thing at a time,” Claudia orders. “What about logistics? Travel supplies, horses, maps that aren’t thirty miles to an inch.”

“We have been… salvaging supplies, from the belongings of those killed at the Conclave,” Leliana says, phrasing the matter delicately.

“Legal stealing? I suppose the Chantry’s been good at that for many centuries,” Claudia agrees without thinking. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Cassandra stiffen. “Just be sure that any prized personal possessions are retained to be sent to families.” Leliana nods, and Josephine makes a note.

“As for horses, many attending the Conclave arrived on foot,” Cullen says. “There were about forty in Haven at the time of the explosion, and most escaped. We’ve recovered about half of them, but we’re already running low on fodder.”

“Another thing to add to my shopping list.” Claudia stands up straight, still looking at the map. “When will everything be ready?”

“We will leave at dawn, the day after tomorrow,” Cassandra says.

“Good.” Claudia pauses, looking at each of the Inquisition’s advisors in turn. Cassandra is steely and determined, apparently as eager to leave as Claudia is. Lady Montilyet is scribbling away on her writing board, with Leliana looking over her shoulder. Commander Cullen returns her gaze evenly, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword. “If there’s nothing else, I have a ram to continue butchering.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains mentions of rape, infanticide, suicide, and corporal punishment as part of Circle life. If this disturbs you, skip from Solas saying “You said earlier that your sister had horror stories about the Circle.” to Claudia walking away.

By the time sunset comes, Claudia aches from her shoulders to her knees. At least her vague plan to improve the Haven populace’s view of her seems to be working. After a day of butchering meat, chopping wood, hauling water, and doing grunt work in the infirmary, people have largely stopped staring at her in religious awe or retreating when she approaches. Apparently, the Herald of Andraste doesn’t get splinters or threaten to sit on wounded soldiers when they won’t hold still to have their wounds tended. The Herald probably doesn’t juggle her hot bowl of stew to keep it from burning her hands, either, but Claudia does just that as she makes her way from the mess tent beside the tavern to Varric’s little fireside.

“Well, have a look at this!” Varric grins at Solas as Claudia takes a seat beside the pair. “What do you think we’ve done to deserve being graced with -”

“Oh, give it a rest,” Claudia says, and shoves a spoonful of stew in her mouth. It’s ram, unsurprisingly, with fat little dumplings and a collection of root vegetables scrounged up from various residents’ cellars.

Varric laughs. “All right, I deserved that. You know, I was just telling Chuckles we should put together a game of something, get to know each other a little better.”

Claudia swallows her mouthful and asks, “Chuckles?”

“I can only presume it is intended to be ironic,” Solas replies, deadpan.

“Don’t be jealous just because I came up with a good nickname for him before I found one for you,” Varric says to Claudia.

“I’m not jealous as much as I am sympathetic with his plight,” Claudia assures the dwarf.

“Now, come on, a game of something,” Varric insists. He rubs his hands together gleefully.

“Not Wicked Grace,” Claudia says. “I’ve seen you at the table, and I’d trust a Llomerryn pirate with a deck of cards before I played you.”

“What?” the dwarf asks. “First, I can’t decide if I’m flattered or insulted. Second, where have you seen me play Wicked Grace?”

“Mmmf,” is Claudia’s initial response around a mouthful of stew. She holds up a finger to ask for patience as she chews and swallows. “Kirkwall, the Hanged Man. I used to make bets with my friends on how much you were going to take off Hawke and her crew in an evening.”

Varric throws his hands up. “My informants have blatantly failed me, because I had no clue you’ve been to Kirkwall.”

Claudia giggles at his exasperation. “Varric, I was in Kirkwall for seven _years._ My mercenary company was headquartered there. You just didn’t know me because we were never stupid enough to accept a contract on Hawke.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

“Eastern Shield,” Claudia says with a smirk. “If it wasn’t so Maker-damned cold, I’d show you my tattoo.”

“Eastern Shield,” Varric repeats. “Weren’t they contracted to help with the Blight refugees?”

“Mm-hmm,” Claudia agrees, chewing and then swallowing. “My fourth year. You would not believe how many stab wounds I stitched up. But I’ll give those Fereldans this - when a pregnant woman with a knife yells at them, they do what she says.”

“Somehow I doubt Fereldans are the only people who will do so,” Solas comments.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Varric repeats. “If I knew where Hawke was, I’d write and ask if she ever ran into a crazy pregnant lady her first year in town. Now _that_ would be too much to believe.”

“I don’t think I ever treated her. I saw her around once in a while,” Claudia says. “She’s hard to miss.”

“She is that,” Varric agrees, a little more somber than before.

“Why do you say so?” Solas asks, leaning forward curiously.

“Marian’s… unique,” Varric says. He and Claudia share a glance.

“She’s like no one else you’ve seen,” Claudia continues. “The moment she walks into a room, everyone knows it. And she’s beautiful, in the strangest way.”

“You look at her from one angle and she’s all skin and bones, you can’t imagine why anyone would ever think she was attractive.” Varric raises a hand, holding it edge-on to the fire to illustrate his point. Slowly, he turns his hand and lets the shadows play over it. “Then you look at her again, and you think if Andraste was half as gorgeous, it’s no wonder people followed her over half a continent.” He lowers his hand and shakes his head. “I’d call it charisma, but I’ve met charismatic folks and they don’t have half the power Hawke does.”

“See, you should’ve described her like that in the book,” Claudia says, elbowing the dwarf. “The way you talked about her made her sound like a porcelain doll carrying a sword.”

“Sometimes you’ve got to give people what they want,” Varric says with a shrug. “It’s a lot easier to say ‘The Champion is beautiful’ than it is to say ‘The Champion looks like someone tried to carve a goddess out of bone and made a woman by accident’.”

Claudia nods with her mouth full. “See, that one’s good, too.”

“I feel I should admit, I have yet to read _The Tale of the Champion,_” Solas says.

“I’ll give you the highlights,” Varric offers. “Hawke gets rich, saves the city, falls in love with the crazy apostate, kills the Knight-Commander, sets the mages loose, and rides off into the sunset.”

Solas nods, his expression contemplative. “At what point is the Chantry destroyed?”

“Right before the Knight-Commander goes nuts from red lyrium and has to be put down,” Varric replies. “I left that out. It’s important, but when you’re trying to fit everything into a run-on sentence, you’ve gotta cut where you can.”

“Certainly,” Solas agrees. “Tell me, other than destroying the Chantry, why do you consider Anders mad?”

“Well -” Varric sighs. “I don’t know I’d say he’s totally cuckoo-land. It doesn’t help that he’s got some… spirit or demon, whatever that thing is these days, living in his head.”

Solas leans forward again. “He’s possessed?”

“Yeah. When he was with the Grey Wardens, this Spirit of Justice got stuck on our side of the Veil, running around in a corpse. At some point, Anders invited it to rent some head-space and the next you know, he’s glowing blue and yelling about the oppression of the mages.”

“Hey -” Claudia covers her mouth and swallows before she speaks again. “I worked with the man from time to time, all right? He’s one of the best healers I’ve ever seen. And I read his manifesto. He made some damn good points.”

“Yeah, he also killed a couple hundred people and sent every Circle in southern Thedas into a self-destructive tail-spin, so -” Varric spreads his hands and shrugs dramatically.

“Claudia.” Solas cocks his head as he looks at her. “You said earlier that your sister had horror stories about the Circle.”

“Yeah.” She scrapes at the bottom of her bowl, uncomfortable being put on the spot. “I mean, where do you want me to start? The templar who raped girls on their sixteenth birthdays? Nobody stopped him for years because he was the Grand Cleric’s nephew. How about the time a mage who’d just had a baby decided to kill her own child rather than let the Chantry take it? How about the time the templars brought in three Dalish mages and they poisoned themselves rather than live in the Circle? How about the time one of the Formari herbalists was being coerced into smuggling lyrium out of the Circle and instead of finding out who was blackmailing him, the templars flogged him and made every mage watch, even down to the apprentices?” Claudia stands up. “That’s the Circle of Magi, Varric. That’s one of the _best_ Circles, where the Grand Cleric used to get chewed out by her colleagues for letting the Knight-Commander be so _soft_ on the mages. That’s where my sister spent her life, for the crime of being a mage.” 

She puts her bowl and spoon down on the log where she had been sitting and walks away.

The gate is closed for the night, but the guards open it a crack and let her go. She isn’t wearing her coat - maybe they assume she won’t be going far. The military camp is quiet, only a few candles flickering here and there in the orderly lines of the tents. She passes a patrol on their route and exchanges a polite nod with them. When she reaches the edge of the frozen lake, she walks down the length of the dock and sits at the end with her legs dangling.

It could have been worse. Cassia had been lucky. She had never been the subject of a horror story. No one was stupid enough to put their hands on a bann’s daughter. She had been allowed to go anywhere she wanted. After all, there were a dozen templars in the extended family and only one mage. It could have been worse. And yet Claudia’s twin had still whispered to her in the night and told her that sometimes, she felt the only escape would be death. Claudia used to kiss her tears and never told her that sometimes, she felt the same of her life. It could have been worse.

Now Cassia is dead, and Claudia feels like half of herself is gone.

Morning, when it comes, is grey and clouded. A vicious wind whips over Haven’s walls and kicks up snow in biting eddies. It matches Claudia’s mood well, and if she wasn’t concerned about freezing to death, she’d appreciate it. Everyone without duties that absolutely require them to be outside is crowded under shelter. Every seat in the tavern is occupied, every cabin is filled with people sitting on the floor, and the soldiers cram themselves six at a time into tents meant for three. The Chantry is especially cramped, and the fact that three different clerics seem to be reciting three different sermons doesn’t help. 

It takes several minutes for Claudia to move through the crush to the back of the hall, a passage that usually takes a few seconds. When she finally reaches the door to one of the side rooms, she almost falls over the threshold in relief. Then she realizes she’s in the wrong room. Instead of Ambassador Montilyet waiting for her, she finds Sister Leliana kneeling in prayer. Damn it.

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker’s will is written,” the Nightingale murmurs. “Is that what You want from us? Blood? To die so that Your will is done? Is death Your only blessing?”

Claudia tries and fails to repress a shiver. It’ll be her blood, more likely than not, and her death.

Leliana rises abruptly, turning toward Claudia. “You speak for Andraste, no?” she demands. “What does the Maker’s prophet have to say about all of this? What’s His game?”

“I’m sick of this,” Claudia snaps. “Just because some soldier with dust in his eyes thought there was a woman behind me when I fell out of the Fade does not mean I speak for anyone other than myself. And now you think this is the Maker playing with us? This is not a game, Nightingale. People are dead.”

“If the Maker willed this, what is it if not a game or a cruel joke?” The sister huffs out a laugh at her own question and begins to pace the width of the room. “The Chantry teaches that the Maker abandoned us. He demands repentance for our sins. He demands it all - our lives, our deaths. Justinia gave Him everything she had, and He let her die.” She shakes her head. “If the Maker doesn’t intervene to save the best of His servants, what good is He?”

“You said it yourself. He abandoned us. How do we even know He cares anymore? Maybe He’s gone off to try again. Third time’s the charm.” Claudia leans back against the door, crossing her arms. 

It startles a laugh out of Leliana, and she stops pacing. “I hope you can keep that opinion to yourself. It won’t help make us any more popular with the Grand Clerics.”

“I’m not the one having a crisis of faith in a Chantry,” Claudia points out.

“True,” Leliana agrees. “I used to think I was chosen, just as some say you are. I thought I was fulfilling His purpose for me, working with the Divine, helping people. But now she’s dead. It was all for nothing. Serving the Maker meant nothing.”

Claudia nods. “Yes, Justinia is dead. The people you’ve helped aren’t. I think _that_ is what matters.”

“An interesting perspective,” the sister says. “But this is my burden. I regret that I even let you see me like this. It was a moment of weakness. It won’t happen again.”

“Maybe lock the door next time,” Claudia suggests. “No, I’ll be serious. Everyone has doubts, Sister. What matters is that you don’t let them swallow you up. And if it does happen again…” She shrugs. “You know where to find me.”

“I do know that.” Leliana pauses. “Though, shouldn’t you be with Josephine?”

“Yeah, wrong door.” Claudia shrugs again, giving a self-deprecating grin. “I hope I helped a little.”

“You did. I thank you.” As Claudia turns to leave, Leliana speaks again. “Oh, be prepared. She’s having trouble with a land-owner and I suspect she intends you to play the Herald of Andraste.”

Claudia rolls her eyes and holds up her marked hand. “Ooh, look at me, I’m sparkly. That means you have to do what I tell you,” she says sarcastically. Leliana’s laugh follows her out of the room and into the hall. 

Outside the right door, she pauses to dust herself off a little. Whatever people think the Herald of Andraste looks like, it’s probably not what she looks like at the moment: her hair damp with melted snow, the scars on her right cheek and forehead red from the cold, and her outfit better suited to a woodsman than a noble’s daughter. Well, it’s what they’ve got.

When she pushes open the door to Josephine’s office, it’s to find a yellow-masked Orlesian man in the ambassador’s face. “The Inquisition cannot remain, Ambassador, if you can’t prove it was founded on Justinia’s orders.”

“This is an inopportune time, Marquis,” she replies. Then she sees Claudia, and changes tactics. “But allow me to introduce you to the brave soul who risked her life to slow the magic of the Breach. Lady Trevelyan, may I present Marquis DuRellion? One of Divine Justinia’s greatest supporters.”

The marquis has spent too long wearing a mask, and Claudia can see the surprise and distaste in his eyes that says _‘This is a lady?’_ Fool. She gives him a perfect court bow, to the depth a marquis warrants and not a finger’s-width more. “_Enchanté, Marquis, et je vous remercie d'être venus aujourd'hui._ It is an honor to have such a good friend of the Divine to mourn with us.” He opens his mouth, but Claudia turns to Josephine before he can speak. “Ambassador, please tell me you have not detained the marquis here when I am certain he will wish to travel to the temple and pay his respects as soon as possible. I cannot imagine what would be important enough to be worth delaying his chance to honor the last moments of his dear friend.”

Only the little crinkle at the corners of Josephine’s eyes gives away her delight. “Alas, my lady, I believe the marquis intended to discuss business.”

“It is brave of you to shoulder the burden of your grief and carry on as though nothing has happened,” Claudia tells the marquis. “Be assured, your grace, we understand the pain of your loss. There will be time enough to discuss your support of the Inquisition.”

“I… will only need a moment, Lady Trevelyan,” the marquis says, attempting to rally. “House DuRellion lent this land to Divine Justinia for a pilgrimage -”

“Very generously, I’m sure.” Claudia smiles at him, the smile of a predator. To the Void with House Trevelyan’s black stallion sigil; hers is the black bear of the Vimmark Mountains.

“I - Yes. We were honored to lend this land to Divine Justinia. She is -” He pauses and corrects himself. “She was a woman of supreme merit.”

“I confess,” Claudia says, “I never had the chance to meet the Divine myself. Yet, even after her death, her compassion and progressive ways are a blessing to us. It was by her decree that Seeker Pentaghast began the task of reforming the Inquisition.”

“Ah, so I have been informed.” The Marquis jumps at the chance to bring up his complaint. “But I have yet to see any written records from Seeker Pentaghast or Sister Leliana that Justinia approved the Inquisition. Without such proof, your Inquisition is not a beneficiary of the arrangement House DuRellion had with the Divine.”

Josephine turns her attention to her writing board, feigning disinterest. “What a pity. If you won’t take the Seeker at her word, I am afraid she must challenge you to a duel.”

“What?” the marquis squeaks.

“A matter of Nevarran honor, of course,” Claudia tells him seriously. “Given the weather, the training ring is at your disposal. I would be glad to inform the Seeker right away.”

“Or I could arrange the bout for tonight,” Josephine says.

“Oh, no,” Claudia says, shaking her head. “It’ll only get colder when the sun goes down. Better to get it out of the way sooner rather than later. Ambassador, do you know if the Seeker is in conference with the commander, or would she be in her quarters?”

“No!” the marquis says quickly. “No, I - Perhaps my reaction to the Inquisition’s presence was somewhat hasty.”

“Then please, your grace, consider your dear friend,” Claudia says. “Divine Justinia would not have wanted her passing to divide us.”

“She would, I imagine, trust us to forge new alliances to the benefit of all,” Josephine agrees. “No matter how strange they might seem at the beginning.”

The marquis sighs, and Claudia knows they’ve got him. “I shall think on it, Lady Montilyet,” he promises. “The Inquisition may stay in the meanwhile.”

“You’re too kind, Marquis DuRellion,” Claudia says. When she opens the door for him, he takes the hint and leaves.

Almost immediately, the ambassador’s face breaks into a smile. “You were excellent, Lady Trevelyan. I should have expected nothing less.”

“Oh, please.” Claudia waves a hand dismissively as Josephine moves to sit at her desk. “My mother would have me strangled if I ever forgot how to play the Game.” She finds a clear spot on the desk and perches on it, crossing her legs. “Now, how much of a claim does he _really_ have on Haven?”

“His Grace’s position is not as strong as he presents it to be,” the ambassador says with a twinkle in her eye. “His wife is Fereldan, and her family was given rights to this land in an ancient treaty with Ferelden’s monarchs.”

“And somehow I don’t see King Alistair supporting a man trying to claim something that should rightly belong to his wife,” Claudia agrees, smirking.

Josephine tilts her head in acknowledgement. “Furthermore, if the marquis wishes to lay claim to Haven, as a member of the Orlesian nobility, Empress Celene must negotiate with Ferelden on his behalf.”

“Hah!” Claudia rubs her hands together gleefully. “She’s got bigger issues on her plate than that gnat.”

“Even so, His Grace is only the first of many dignitaries we must contend with.”

“Don’t tell me you’re expecting more like him.”

“More, certainly, but not necessarily like the marquis. And each visitor will spread the story of the Inquisition after they depart. An ambassador should ensure that story is as complimentary as possible.”

“And here I am, a bumpkin from the Free Marches, thinking an ambassador is just someone who solves problems without stabbing people,” Claudia sighs dramatically.

“That, too,” Josephine agrees, dipping her quill into her inkpot and making a note in the margin of one of her papers. 

Claudia grins. “So tell me, what brings the former chief Antivan ambassador to Orlais out to this frozen hole in the mud? Is working for a heretical organization something you’ve ached to do since you were a little tiny diplomat?”

“Sister Leliana approached me. We’ve been acquainted for quite some time.” Josephine smiles and shakes her head a little. “For better or worse, being the Inquisition’s diplomat has become as interesting as she promised.”

“Well, Lady Montilyet, I hope we don’t grow too dull for you.” Claudia hops down from the desk and gives her a silly, flourishy bow. “It has been a delight to make your acquaintance at last.”

“And it has been a delight to see you live up to your reputation, Lady Trevelyan,” Josephine replies with a smile, pointing at her with the feathered end of her quill.

“I have a reputation?” Claudia asks, laying a dramatic hand on her chest and pretending to be surprised. “Tell me, my lady, what do they whisper about me in the fleshpots of Val Royeaux?”

“I don’t know about the fleshpots,” Josephine says. “But in the back rooms, they say your most dangerous weapons are your bow and your wit.”

“Ah, so they know me well.” She laughs at herself and drops the act. “I spent three years in that snake-pit they call a royal court, so I don’t know what I expected.”

“You were only the Ostwick ambassador’s liaison, so it’s not as though rumor would put you in the empress’s bed.”

“Hmm. You know, she’s almost my type,” Claudia says contemplatively, and gets a little snort of laughter from Josephine. “Was there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Several matters, actually.” Josephine picks up a short pile of papers and taps them on her desk to straighten them. “I intended to start a meeting as soon as you arrived, but the marquis waylaid me.”

“Shall I escort you, Lady Ambassador?” Claudia teases.

“A generous offer,” Josephine says with a gracious smile. “But I need a moment to gather my things and ask Leliana to join us. I believe Seeker Pentaghast and the commander are already waiting. Please, feel free to join them.”

“I’ll see if they have anything to bring up before the meeting, then,” Claudia agrees.

When she’s on the other side of the door, she pauses to close her eyes. Slipping out of the persona of Lady Trevelyan and back into Claudia takes the tension out of her neck and shoulders. She trained to play the role for years, like a dancer rehearsing her part. Sometimes she even enjoys it, but most of the time, it’s like living in a skin that isn’t hers, too small and too delicate. Lady Trevelyan didn’t live as a mercenary, didn’t learn to be a healer, didn’t swear a physician’s oaths, didn’t marry a man she loved. Lady Trevelyan was tucked away in a closet like an out-of-season dress when Claudia ran away, then was taken out and dusted off when she came home. It feels better to be Claudia, who swears and kicks things and tells people what she thinks, even if Claudia is, at heart, only another role to play.

Cassandra and Cullen both have their backs to the door, looking at something on the table, so Claudia takes a place on the other side of Cullen to find out what they’re examining. “You’ve got maps! Finally!” she exclaims.

Cullen smiles at her, startled by her excitement, but Cassandra takes it in stride. “One of Leliana’s scouts pieced this together based on reports we’ve gathered,” she says, unspooling a large sheet of paper. Claudia takes one end, and together they spread the map across the table. 

“Now, this covers the entirety of your journey,” the commander says, “from Haven to Point Belena on the Imperial Highway, and then on toward Redcliffe. Haven is, uh -” He leans toward Claudia to point on her side of the map. “- here.”

“Mm-hmm?” Claudia asks, playing innocent as she presses herself shoulder-to-shoulder with the handsome knight.

“I, uh - yes.” He glances at her quickly, blushes, and looks away. “You came here up the river road, presumably - everyone did.”

“Well, it would be a bit foolish to come hiking over from Gherlen’s Hearth,” she replies, tracing a route through the rugged terrain between Haven and the crossroads where the Imperial Highway splits at the shore of Lake Calenhad.

“Yes, I suppose so,” he agrees with a hint of a laugh. “In any case, you know what conditions are like on that road.”

“Miserable, yes,” Claudia says. She taps one of the spiky symbols on the map. “And if these are Fade rifts, I’m going to take a wild guess and say things have only gotten worse.” Behind her, the door opens, Leliana and Josephine coming to join the group, but she ignores it, focused on the map. 

“Our scouts have located four rifts over the one-hundred and ten miles between here and the crossroads in Redcliffe’s hinterlands,” Cassandra says. “They seem to be spaced along the road randomly. One of the scouts started at the nearest rift and attempted to travel _around _Haven to determine if the rifts are concentric from the temple.” She traces a curved line from a rift symbol to the edge of a river. “Although he wasn’t able to travel any further than this, he didn’t encounter any rifts at a distance of more than a mile from the road.”

“I wonder…” Claudia presses a finger to her lips, contemplating the map as a whole. “When I was talking to Solas yesterday, he said spirits can be attracted to locations where emotional events have taken place, and they weaken the Veil in those locations. What if the rifts have appeared where the Veil was already weakest?”

“But why in these places?” Cullen asks.

“Who knows?” Claudia replies. “Think of all the things that can happen to travelers - injuries, attacks, deaths. Even if we don’t know something took place, spirits on the other side of the Veil would.”

“It makes sense,” Leliana says thoughtfully. “There are no rifts off the road to Haven because so few people have traveled off the road. If they don’t travel off the road, nothing _happens _off the road and the Veil remains strong there.”

“If this is true, it means we can prioritize where to search for rifts,” Cullen says. “Here -” He lifts Claudia’s hand off the road map and rolls it up toward Cassandra so they can look at the entire map of Ferelden beneath. As he leans in to point, she takes the chance to lay her hand on the soft fur of his mantle. “Start at population centers - Gherlen’s Hearth, Draycott, Point Belena, and Redcliffe - and work our way out.”

“Not only the towns, though,” Claudia says. “The Dalish have routes they’ve used for generations to avoid conflict with human settlements. Their roads will be at as much risk as ours, or more.”

“There was a Dalish elf here before the Conclave,” Cassandra says quickly. “Leliana, you remember the woman that came straight up to you and said ‘Hullo, I am a spy, may I come and watch?’”

“Of course I remember her,” Leliana agrees. “I saw her at the battle to close the Breach, but I don’t know off the top of my head if she’s still here.”

“She was the mad one with the wolf at her heels, wasn’t she?” Cullen asks as he straightens up from leaning over the map. “I don’t know I ever heard her name, but I _do_ know she put herself in the roster for valley patrols. She and that beast kept one of the recruits from being trampled by a druffalo the other day.”

“Well, as long she isn’t too mad, we should see if she’ll reach out to the local clans on the Inquisition’s behalf,” Claudia says.

“Personally, I think she deserves some credit for honesty,” Cullen says. “How many ‘official envoys’ were sent to the Conclave just because Lord Whoever of Wherever wanted to know what was happening?”

“Oh, I was,” Claudia says cheerfully. “I mean, I didn’t walk up to Sister Leliana and tell her ‘Just so you know, I’m a spy’, but that was more because I assumed she already knew than anything else.”

“I knew,” Leliana confirms.

Josephine clears her throat and brushes off the top sheet of the papers on her writing board. “If we can table this discussion for later, we do have some important matters to review,” she says, her tone faintly scolding.

“Please proceed, Ambassador.” Cassandra gives her a solemn nod.

“First, we have received a message from Teyrn Fergus Cousland of Highever.” The ambassador removes a paper from her board and offers it to Claudia. “He sends condolences for the death of the Divine. There will be a vigil for her in Highever, and the Inquisition has been invited to attend.”

“Cousland,” Claudia repeats as she skims the letter. “The queen’s brother?”

“The same.” Josephine acknowledges her with a tilt of her head. “With Elissa Cousland away on Warden business, it does not mean we will automatically have easy access to the royal court. But it will increase our standing with the nobility of Ferelden if we are seen to be welcomed by the teyrn. I believe we should send a diplomatic attaché and some of the surviving templars who knew Justinia personally.”

Claudia nods. “Thoughts?” she asks, addressing the table at large.

“Fereldans respect strength more than politics,” Cullen says. “We have a number of Fereldan officers. We could send some of them as an honor guard to Highever.”

“I agree with the commander.” Cassandra rests her hands on the pommel of her sword.

“Leliana?” Claudia prompts.

“I think our diplomats would be better served seeking alliances with the Grand Clerics outside Orlais. Many of them have proven hesitant to immediately condemn the Inquisition. And our soldiers would be better used quelling the violence in Redcliffe’s hinterlands. I have worked closely with both Elissa Cousland and Divine Justinia. I can’t attend the vigil, but I could send a letter.”

“That doesn’t sound like enough,” Claudia says. “Lady Montilyet thinks the Inquisition should be seen. The commander says soldiers will be better received than diplomats. I think we should send the honor guard _and _a party of scouts. That way, we can improve our reputation and gain more information on the locations of rifts in Ferelden.”

Leliana nods slowly. “I have a number of scouts who hail from the Coastlands.”

“I can put together a selection for the honor guard before tomorrow morning,” Cullen says. “They can accompany the Herald down the river road, at least.”

“Good, except for one thing,” Claudia says. When Cullen turns to look at her, she pushes herself up on her toes to get in his face for emphasis. “Don’t call me the _fucking _Herald of Andraste.” He blinks at her in surprise as she drops back down to her usual height, a hand’s-length shorter than him. “I have things I want to do with my life, and getting burned at the stake for heresy isn’t one of them.”

“I - I apologize, my lady.” There’s an embarrassed blush high on his cheeks, but Claudia takes mercy on him and doesn’t make anything else of the issue.

As Josephine takes the letter back and pulls out the next relevant document, Cassandra mutters, “I warned you.”

“Since we were speaking of our scouts, one of them returned from the Draycott area with this.” Josephine passes along the note and proceeds to summarize it. “Lord Kildarn is demanding the Inquisition send forces to remove refugees, who he claims are heretics, from his land. Apparently King Alistair has already declined to act.”

“It would be easy to win his favor by convincing the refugees to move elsewhere,” Leliana offers.

“I cannot say I am sure we _want_ Lord Kildarn’s favor,” Josephine says. “He is a pariah even among his peers. I believe we should send a polite refusal and nothing more.”

“I disagree. I think we should send troops.” Cullen pauses to cross his arms. “But I think they should help the refugees rather than this Lord Kildarn.”

Claudia can’t help but smirk at him. “I like the way you think, Commander. Do we have enough horses for them to leave with us tomorrow?”

“Not if the honor guard is to arrive on time, rather than a week late.” Cullen shakes his head, looking down at the map. “We’ve got at least two dozen soldiers from the western shore of Lake Calenhad, though. These refugees will be their people. Ask them to volunteer and they’ll walk through fire to get there.”

“If this is our plan, then I want to send one or more of my agents with this detachment,” Leliana says. “At the very least, they can ensure there’s warning if Kildarn considers retaliation. We may even come away with some blackmail material.”

“Cassandra, do you have anything to add?” Claudia asks.

The Seeker shakes her head. “Only that these refugees cannot come to Haven. We can barely support everyone who is already here.”

“I have to agree,” Claudia says reluctantly as she hands the letter back to Josephine. “What’s next?”

“Trouble with the Trevelyans, unfortunately,” Josephine says.

_No, not my babies, not Papa, please._ Claudia stumbles back a step and ends up desperately trying to support herself against the table. _Andraste, not my babies -_

“Your family is safe,” Leliana says firmly. 

Claudia takes a deep breath, not quite managing to suppress her shudder of relief. It’s only when she tries to get her feet under her that she realizes Cullen caught her by the elbow and is holding her up. “Sorry,” she says, a little breathless.

“It’s all right,” he murmurs, looking down at her with concern writ plain on his face.

She clears her throat and stands up straight. There’s a hint of surprise in Josephine’s eyes, and cool understanding in Leliana’s expression. How much does the Nightingale know? “What’s happened?” Claudia tries to keep her voice calm. Instead, it comes out too breathy again.

“Some of your distant relatives are already claiming close friendships with the Inquisition,” the ambassador explains, offering up another letter to read. Claudia takes it, but can’t get her eyes to focus on the paper. “This is to be expected, but some are taking things too far -”

“I don’t care how you deal with my idiot relations,” she interrupts, dropping the message on the table. “You can write them a rude letter or set the hounds on them - or worse, my mother - but I don’t care.”

“Very well.” Josephine’s reply is casual, but she eyes Claudia cautiously as she leans over the table to take the paper back. “The last matter is a favor Varric has asked of us. A publishing house in Antiva is putting out false sequels to _Hard in Hightown_, and he very much wants the author found before -”

“Maker’s saggy tits! I thought this stupid fucking Inquisition was supposed to be about, I don’t know, finding whoever the fuck murdered the Divine and -” Claudia chokes out a hysterical laugh, unable to stop herself. “- and put us on the edge of the biggest fucking war since the last Exalted March! There’s a hole in the sky, there are demons coming gibbering out of the bowels of the Fade, and Varric wants us to find a - a copycat? I can’t do this.” She pushes herself away from the war table. “I’m sorry, I can’t do this.”

“Trevelyan,” Cassandra says warningly, taking a step toward her.

“Don’t say it like that when this is your fault,” Claudia hisses, still backing away. “I told you, I will close the rifts and I will do what I can, but I can’t do this.” She bumps up against the door and whirls to throw it open. The sight of the crowd packed into the Chantry almost stops her, but she pushes her way through them to escape. 

Claudia makes her way through the empty paths of Haven with her shoulders hunched against the cold. There’s nowhere good for her to hide and avoid the inevitable retribution, not even the cabin that seems to be hers. She gave it over to two large families when she left this morning, taking her bags with her into the Chantry in anticipation of sleeping in the loft there. The cabin isn’t hers, anyway, it just seems like that’s where people expect her to be. It’s not where she’s supposed to be. She’s supposed to be back in Ostwick by now, reporting on the first week of the Conclave, teasing Myron about the knights and telling Sophie about the nobles and their ladies, bringing Cassia home - 

Instead her tears are freezing on her cheeks.

Even if she can’t bear to stay in Haven, it’s too cold to remain outside. She has to take shelter somewhere. When she steps through the open gates, the force of the wind unhindered by the walls almost knocks her over. Shivering, she holds the high collar of her coat closed at her throat and stumbles toward the stables beyond the blacksmith’s forge.

When the barn door slams shut behind her, the wind drops to a faint keen, occasionally rising and pushing wisps of snow through the small gaps in the boards before it falls again. Steam curls around the rafters from the horses’ breath, and the air is rich with the smell of their bodies and their hay. Claudia makes her way down the rows as her shivering lessens, stroking the curious velvety noses that rise to greet her. At the end of the second row, she finds her own horse - sweet Laurel, with her flax-and-white winter coat as fluffy as late-blooming bay laurel flowers. 

Once she kisses the swirl of hair in the middle of Laurel’s white mask to say hello and shows the horse she has no treats, the Free Marches Ranger moves back to let Claudia step into the stall. Restless, she sections out a length of the horse’s pale mane to braid. As she starts to work, she talks quietly, as much to Laurel as to herself: “I think you might be the only friend I’ve got left on this side of the Waking Sea, you know. I can’t imagine what Mama’s Orlesian relatives think of me. Well, that’s assuming they remember me. It’s entirely possible they heard the name Trevelyan and only went, ‘Hmm, why does that sound familiar?’ Grand-mère will remember me. Considering the way I used to behave when we went to see her, she might think I actually did cause the explosion and kill the Divine.”

Laurel snorts softly as though in reply, and Claudia nods. “You’re right, she was always the one who saw the best in me. When I send a letter home, I should send her one as well to say I’m all right. Heh, and ‘Please, Grand-mère, don’t complain about the Inquisition when you have your friends over for tea, it’ll be dreadfully embarrassing because I’m working with them. Yes, Grand-mère, I know they’re acting like heretics, but I’ve tried asking them politely to stop and they didn’t listen.’ Well, I tried asking them _rudely,_ but I won’t tell her that. She hates it when I curse.” 

The horse tilts her head toward Claudia, and she stops braiding to obligingly scratch the ear she’s being presented with. “It’s really a little hypocritical for her to tell me I’ve got a mouth like a sailor when Grand-père _was_ a sailor and taught me half my favorite swear words. I suppose he just knew better than to curse where she could hear him. What do you think?” Laurel only leans harder into the ear-scratches, and Claudia shakes her head. “You’re so single-minded.” 

When the horse lets her return to braiding, she changes topics. “These people are going to drive me mad. Not that anyone will necessarily notice, considering I’m standing here talking to a horse. At least you don’t call me the Herald of Andraste. I’m just ‘the lady who brings the carrots’ to you, aren’t I? Herald of fucking Andraste…” She leans forward to rest her forehead against Laurel’s warm neck. “There was someone there,” she admits in a whisper. “Someone who helped me. But Maker preserve me, I don’t want it to have been Andraste. I don’t know what I’d do if it was. I don’t know what I _should_ do if it was. I just want to go home and see my babies.”

Laurel tosses her head at the word, and Claudia has to laugh, even if it’s only a humorless chuckle. “They’re not here, sweetheart,” she says, stroking the horse’s shoulder now. “I don’t know if I wish they were or if I’m glad they’re not. I’m so, so afraid someone is going to hurt them to get to me. It’s probably good they’re not here, but I miss them so much sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe. And if there really are rifts all over Thedas, it might be years before I can go home. That’s if this thing doesn’t kill me.” She looks down at the glowing mark. “And if they let me go at all.”

The sound of the wind rises abruptly, then falls again with the slam of the stable door. Someone else is here. Claudia stays quiet, gently scratching Laurel’s withers. If she’s lucky, it’s someone who’s been taking care of the horses, and they won’t care one way or another that she’s here. If she’s not lucky, it’s someone who’s followed her tracks here from the Chantry, and they’ll have been sent to drag her back. She can already picture Sister Leliana’s cold stare of disappointment. Seeker Pentaghast will be angry, ready to decry her for being derelict in her duty, for being a hypocrite and claiming she wants to help when she’s too unruly to be of any aid. Lady Montilyet will pity her, most likely, and Claudia can almost hear her making excuses to the Seeker: _can’t you see, she isn’t ready for this, she has never been more than a mercenary, we need only watch her closely and ensure she does as she is told._ And Commander Rutherford - so much for ever teasing him again when he’ll think she lacks any kind of self-control. Just a foolish, weak woman, too wild to be good for anything but being carted around to close rifts. They might even put her in chains again. She might even deserve it.

“This is all a mistake,” she murmurs, hiding her face in the horse’s mane again. “It should never have been me.”

“Then who should it have been?” Claudia gasps, one hand going to her knife instinctively. From his position leaning against the stall’s gate, the commander watches her with a level stare. “I understand you’re upset, my lady, but I would appreciate it if you didn’t stab me.”

“I didn’t hear you,” she admits quietly. “And I’m not…” But it’s too great a lie to tell.

“Lady Montilyet is concerned you’re angry with her.”

“What? No, I’m not -” She sighs and shakes her head. “If I am angry, it’s not with her. Maybe with myself.”

“Why?” he asks.

“What do you care?” she replies, too harshly. “Let me guess - everyone drew straws to see who would go and make sure I hadn’t run away, and you got the short one.”

“To make sure you were all right,” he says. “And I volunteered.”

Claudia rests her head against the horse’s neck, looking away from him. Are her cheeks warm from windburn or a blush? “I don’t know who it should have been,” she says after a moment. “I told Varric it should’ve been someone qualified, and he said no one is qualified for this.” As though thinking about the mark invokes it, the light from her hand flares with a soft hiss.

“I’m inclined to agree with Varric. Don’t tell him, though. He might die from the shock.”

The joke startles a laugh out of her, and she steps back from the horse to look at Cullen again. Snow is melting in his hair, making it curl a little, and there’s a faint smile on his lips that tugs at his scar. “I meant to ask him last night,” she says without thinking, “but we ended up in a disagreement before I could. Are you the same Cullen that was at the Gallows in Kirkwall?”

As quickly as she could snap her fingers, his smile is gone. He reaches a hand out to the horse, as though he’s looking for an excuse not to meet her gaze. “I - Yes,” he says, seemingly with great reluctance, as Laurel noses his fingers. “If your sister -”

“Not my sister. Me.” She steps closer to the gate, pretending to examine the spot behind Laurel’s jaw where the halter always rubs. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Cullen look up. “I don’t expect you to remember me, but you were there on the worst night of my life.”

“When?” he asks gently.

“The Qunari attack on Kirkwall.” She reaches up to pick a bit of hay out of the soft hair that lines the horse’s ear. “My son was three years old, and my daughter was a month away from being born. My husband put us on a boat taking women and children to the Gallows for safety. We were twenty lengths out from the dock when… a saarebas set it all aflame. He was still there, fighting to hold them back.”

“I…” He shakes his head. “I can see how that would be the worst night of your life.”

“Oh, that wasn’t all.” Claudia laughs. The sound isn’t as bitter as it would have been once, but it certainly isn’t sweet. “When we reached the Gallows, Myron slipped out of my arms and ran off. I looked for him until I thought I might as well lay down and die. And then I saw _you_, giving orders, with him sitting on your shoulder.”

“I remember,” Cullen says softly, wonderingly. “You were crying -”

“Of course,” she interjects.

“And you kissed me on the cheek.”

“I was a little mad for joy.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “I got teased about that kiss for months.”

“Should I apologize?” she asks, returning his smile.

“No,” Cullen says instantly. “No, I… I’m embarrassed I didn’t recognize you before.”

“I didn’t realize it was you until you said you’d been a templar at that first meeting. And even then, I thought I’d ask to be sure.” Claudia leans against the gate in a mirror of his pose, her arm pressed against his. “Thank you for coming to speak with me. I shouldn’t have left like that. I was…” She sighs. “I don’t know. Overwhelmed, I suppose.”

“If it helps, I thought Varric’s request was ridiculous as well. If the man’s to be believed, he has a spy in every town from here to Tevinter.”

“I don’t really think he’s to be believed, though,” Claudia says with a laugh.

“True,” Cullen says, grinning. “Will you be taking him with you when you depart tomorrow?”

“I wouldn’t leave him in Haven to inflict implausible tales about Hawke on you,” she teases.

“Please, I was a living witness to far too many of those tales.” Laurel butts her head into Cullen’s arm, and he rubs her muzzle. “What about this one? Going with you, too?”

“Of course.” She ruffles the horse’s forelock. “This is Laurel. I brought her over from Ostwick. She’s one of the finest to come out of my father’s stables.”

“I can imagine. If I remember correctly, she came back to Haven on her own once things had settled down.”

“I’m not surprised. She knows what’s good for her.” Claudia brushes a strand of hair out of her face. “Better than most people do, I think.”

“Hmm,” Cullen agrees. “Seeker Pentaghast will be accompanying you, as well.”

“Yes, because I need to be reminded I’m on a short leash,” she mutters, more than a little resentful.

The commander frowns at her, his brow furrowed. “There are few here who still believe you had any part in the death of the Divine. But that mark is a valuable asset. It may be the only thing in the world that can close these rifts.”

“Of course. That’s all that matters.” _That’s all that I matter to the Inquisition, and to you._

“You’re valuable as well, my lady,” he says, as though he can tell what she’s thinking. “For all the time that Seeker Pentaghast, Sister Leliana, and I have spent working together, it can still be difficult for us to come to an agreement. If you hadn’t been in that meeting, it would have taken us hours to make the decisions that we reached in a few moments.” He laughs softly. “If the Maker did send you to us, it may have been for that alone. Even Divine Justinia couldn’t manage it.”

“Do you really believe all this nonsense that I’m supposed to be the Herald of Andraste?” Claudia asks, ready to be disappointed.

But he shakes his head. “I don’t know. If you weren’t fighting it every step of the way, it would be easy to believe. The fact that you can close the rifts _is_ miraculous. It doesn’t seem the kind of thing that would be left to chance. But I suppose you would be the one to know if Andraste herself chose you.”

“Then the worst part is that I don’t know. I don’t remember. I can’t tell anyone for certain if it was or wasn’t…” She breaks off with a sigh. “I never wanted something like this.”

“Perhaps that’s why it did fall to you.” Claudia looks at him, expecting a joke, but Cullen is calm and sincere. “If a Grand Cleric had received your mark, she would already be the new Divine. A lord or a soldier with the mark might be on the path to making themselves the next warlord of all Thedas. Instead, it came to you, a woman who - who won’t stop saying she has a duty to help.”

This time there’s no chance to hide her blush. “I - That’s -” She puts her hand to her mouth, not quite managing to hide her smile. “Thank you,” she finally manages to say after a moment. “I think that might be the first thing anyone’s said that’s made me feel like I should be here.”

“Then I’m glad to have been of service, my lady,” Cullen says, low and sweet, and her heart skips a beat.


End file.
